


and I feel cold in my warmest clothing

by kiehtova



Series: and i feel cold in my warmest clothing [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Background Relationships, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other DC characters - Freeform, Past Abuse, Past Underage, Slow Burn, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 63,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiehtova/pseuds/kiehtova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Bruce never talks about how hurtful it might have been for him, at first, to see Jason push him away. Sixteen years of neglect and a screwed up sense of loyalty were difficult to break through.”</em><br/> <br/>Or</p><p>The one in which Jason decides to save Colin, Bruce tries his best to become the father his children need, Damian struggles with severe internalized homophobia, and the Waynes are a close-knit bunch whose top priority is to help and care for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the longest time, I've been wanting to write an AU in which the Waynes would be very close, loving, and ready to help each other in a heartbeat. I wished to discuss Damian's lowkey homophobic talk during the first Batman & Robin run. I've been missing Colin. Jason's 'forever stuck' situation always annoyed me a lot.
> 
> What if Colin and Damian met in their teenage years, when Damian struggles the most to accept his sexual orientation and, as a result, takes disputable decisions? What if Colin got himself in deep trouble, courtesy of his wannabe-hero side? What if Bruce and Jason finally reached common understanding, but were still not quite ready to become a family yet? What is Dick's favourite bedtime story?
> 
> TL;DR: I thought about the BatFam and Colin too much and could not sleep anymore. That's where this story comes from.
> 
> Title taken from Elizabeth Jean Smart's "Bluebird".  
> 

His knees are a bother. More than the taste, the smell, or the itchy parts of his scalp where dirty fingers pulled his ginger hair too tight. These things he can deal with; he  _learned_. He’d drink tea to cleanse his mouth, burn his throat, and make the bitter scent go. Sooner or later, the headaches would wither.

His knees, however, are a  _bother_. The skin is torn, the bones weak. The sore is perpetual, like the vague sense of shame he has embraced as his shadow. The joints crack day and night. When confronted about this, he half-jokingly tells the group of nuns he lives with: ‘ _that’s what praying can do’_. And Colin  _does_  pray. He holds onto it tight, his words awestruck and true, like hope spilled from above to flood and sink evils as he swallows yet another man’s load, lets air fill his lungs again, and waits. Waits some more. When the taste and the smell and the hurt are bearable, the boy stands up and leaves. In general the men are already long gone. There is no ‘ _thank you_ ’, rarely even a nod. Colin doesn’t mind that—it’s all part of the game. The job is illegal, but it will do for now. Been doing for a while. He always gets paid upfront, in cash, and if oftentimes the sum is only enough to help out with groceries for a day, that’s still twenty-four hours during which he can sleep like the dead and feel better about himself. The other kids got food and that alone keeps him going.

 

It is three in the afternoon on a Tuesday when Colin’s luck runs out. He hears something crack, on his left, and for once it’s not his knees. His vision blurs. The pain is too intense for his voice to function. Several people are standing on the sidewalk he lands on—hard, as predicted by his rapid fall. Colin can hear them gasp in the same breath. The rain that poured until dawn has made the metal stairway outside the local library slippery. It’s an eleven stairs fall, and the steps are quite high. Colin knows it to demand caution at times, his natural gaucherie shining bright in public places. Today, though, this trait of his was not to blame. The teen felt a palm crash on his back, up there. Someone pushed him.

Gritting his teeth, he glances at the almost empty platform where a tall silhouette is swaying. The man is inebriated, and it shows on his face, in his balance, in the trembles of his hands that one can spot from the street. His blond hair is messy and his beard a few days old. Colin remembers him. Back then, as well, the guy had looked somewhat drunk. They met up only once, about two miles away, and those twenty minutes served as a reminder for the teen that he should stop, that the job is dangerous. He understands it now, and not just as a mere conceivability. Blood has already started to gather under the patches of his flesh the drop roughed up the most. His left forearm is throbbing, afire at the touch. His face in covered in tears he cannot control. If anything he is alive, in one piece or so, and that alone makes him feel blessed.

 

While people scout closer, Colin can see the man turning away to cross the platform in the opposite direction. Soon, he reaches the market place and disappears in the crowd. Colin feels nauseated. Cursing under his breath, he raises his right hand to encourage concerned bystanders to keep their distance. His injury seems serious, which makes him want to cry some more.

There is no way the orphanage’s insurance will cover the costs of whatever is going on here. The check is way past due. Earlier this year another kid broke his arm, and after that the nuns struggled to put food on the table for weeks. With too little help from the government, there is no telling what could happen now. Of course the nuns will attempt to get Colin the best possible care, but after that the difficulties might come back, and it would be the boy’s fault.

Besides, a cast will complicate  _the job_ , and that will mean less money and less food for longer than deemed acceptable for the nineteen toddlers Colin is looking after. He understands—a _rational_  part of him understands—that it shouldn’t be his burden, that he is a child himself. But Colin cares for the other orphans he lives with, with a sense of duty so strong that he simply  _cannot_  let them down, without food at the end of the month, without anyone to draw funny dinosaurs on the inner covers of the Bibles during the Mass to make them laugh. They  _need_  him. He fucked up.

He is not sure he’s still breathing.

“Alright, people, please step back. First aid is here.”

The low voice is familiar. Quiet. When the young man it belongs to hunkers down to meet his eyes, Colin identifies him as the librarian working the evening shifts.

The guy is no short of a local celebrity. His name is Jason Todd and he has been hanging out with the all-rich, all-important Waynes for the past four or five years. His poor upbringings make this relationship odd at best, suspicious at worst. Gossip magazines have a field day with it on a regular basis. Colin is pretty sure the term ‘ _boy toy_ ’ was used at some point, although he knows better than to trust what he can read in such papers.

As far as he can tell, Jason is a dedicated employee, always ready to help, who does not look like a junkie or a member of a local gang, and above all does not reek of unwarranted wealth. His jeans are a bit worn out, as are his combat boots, black t-shirt as simple as can be under a brown leather jacket. Right now his teal-tinted eyes are studying Colin with an attention and a sympathy the boy has seldom seen before.

“Did you fall from all the way up, kid?” he asks, and Colin nods. “Okay. I’m Jason, I work here. Look, you seem pale. Are you breathing at all? Do you feel dizzy? Come on, lay down on your back, feet up on the steps. I’ll look at your arm for a bit—if that’s alright with you? I  _do_  have first aid training, honest to God. Adds three dozen bucks to my monthly pay check.”

Colin does as he is told, his movements automatic. The ground is still damp from the rain. It’s not as if the teen’s clothes were worth a lot, but he aims to keep his wardrobe for as long as he can and in a good condition enough to pass it on to another child to avoid unnecessary expenses. He is careful not to lay down too fast. Moving makes the sting in his forearm sharper, and he groans when pulling it closer to his chest sends jolts of electricity through his limb. At least, the tears have stopped. Once his back is straightened, Colin settles his feet on the second step of the stairs and watches warily as Jason Todd inspects his forearm, left hand hoovering under the redhead’s fingers.

“Can you move these?” ( _He can’t._ ) “Okay. Not gonna lie: that doesn’t look good. Is there any other bone in your body that you think could be broken, or is anything else causing abnormal pain?”

Colin cannot feel much apart from his arm. He is positive that a myriad of welts are showing on his skin, everywhere, but none aches as significantly, and he is unable to focus on his body as a whole at the moment. Undecided, he shakes his head. Jason winces, kind and compassionate. Colin tells himself that the man is only being professional, not quite as interested in his fate as he probably care for his neatly trimmed hair, its perfect black shining under the pale clouds in the sky. But the man’s concern sounds genuine.

“It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? That’s alright. I’ll wager that you’re also suffering a mild concussion, though. Given the look of your bruises, you can consider yourself lucky if your arm alone is fractured. Hold on.”

He fishes a mobile phone out of one his pocket. Colin panics at the sight.

“No cops,” he whimpers. “ _Please_.”

Jason shoots him a curious glance, his thumb typing a few times on the surface of his phone. His smile is nothing but reassurance when he puts on the speaker. Colin does not trust him. Since he started to go against the laws of both Man and the Lord, he lives in the constant paranoia that one day someone will report him to the authorities, to the nuns, to  _anyone really_  who might be hurt by his piss-poor choices and lack of self-preservation. Jason has this power now; Colin never had  _any_. When a woman picks up the call, it takes the boy a moment to realize that today is not the day the walls of his life will collapse on his soul.

“Jason—thi! I was about to call. We were talking about you, just started to take bets. Late for work, young man? That’d be a first.”

Gratitude spreads through Colin’s chest so quickly that he chokes on it for half a second as he whispers a ‘ _thank you_ ’. Jason waves him a sign in acknowledgement.

“Hey, Nell. I’m at the bottom of the stairs, front side. Where’s security?”

“ _Security_? What happened? They’re on coffee break.”

Jason frowns, patting Colin’s left leg gently. He has a hard time trying to hide his annoyance.

“Really?  _All_  of them? How long have they been there?”

“We’re short on staff today, Geoff is home with a cold. And… I don’t know, ten minutes? fifteen? What’s going on? Wait up, I’m coming down there.”

“No. No, it’s fine. Kate should come, though, and bring a splint, a scarf, and some ice packs with her.”

“Kate is ill as well.”

Jason growls at the news, pinching the bridge of his nose. Colin can imagine him counting to three to temper the anger, like he always does himself when the kids at the orphanage get loud and restless. Nell speaks again, her tone alert now:

“I’m bringing these to you, Jay, okay? What happened?”

“One of our regulars fell down the stairs.”

“ _Fuck_.”

The line dies. Jason puts the phone back in his pocket, sighs, and scowls at a new batch of people who have started to form a circle nearby, snooping for details. Colin has rarely felt this exposed—job included. He also takes note of the fact that Jason seems to remember him, which is not good news since the residents of St Aden’s have been attending book readings at the library for years, and that basically gives away Colin’s location to a man that does not seem to be the type to abandon a task until it is thoroughly done.

The crowd looking at them is small, seven persons at most. It feels so much bigger. Reaching for the back pocket of his jeans, Jason extracts a plastic card out of it and flashes the item at the bystanders.

“Hi. I’m in charge here, so please move,” he demands. “The kid needs space. Also, put your phones  _down_. Help has been contacted and will be here shortly.”

It takes the group almost a minute to comply. When they are finally alone, Jason turns to Colin, his expression caring and collected again.

“Please tell me something? When I arrived, the people who witnessed the scene were talking about some guy that might have pushed you from the platform. Is this what happened?”

Anxiety ties a thousand knots in the pit of Colin’s stomach. His mind turns blank, his heartrate increasing, the pain in his arm reaching a peak that makes him shed some more tears as he bites the inside of his cheeks. When he can avoid it, he is not one to lie to those he believes to be good people. He knows lie to be malicious. Yet, right now, he has no idea which wrong would be better, since no amount of falsehoods nor truths could help him in the event of Jason reporting him to the nearest police precinct or escorting him there.

He cannot tell the cops, let alone the nuns, about any of this. Either they’ll register the complaint and will end up discovering what the real nature of his relationship with the drunk fella was, or they won’t do any of that and Colin will still be stuck with substantial ER and medication bills. Not to mention that the people he lives with might never trust him again—and would they be wrong not to? Colin is overwhelmed. The weight of his bad choices is physically too heavy for his body to abide. His breathing is erratic, the world spinning around him. It is only when Jason proceeds to caress Colin’s forehead in circling motions, murmuring ‘ _you’re okay, kid, you’ll be alright_ ’ on a loop, that the redhead gradually reconnects with what is happening around him. It takes him a while to adjust, Jason praising his efforts in barely audible tones. When Colin locks eyes with him, the librarian shows his card to another group of nosy bystanders (who for once get the hint and move away immediately) before he bows down and whispers:

“Listen, kid...”

“Name’s Colin,” the teen croaks.

“ _Colin_. Listen, the stairs are the library’s responsibility. We must ensure that no one is at risk when operating them, and, well, legally, we are held accountable if someone falls from the platform, because it’s considered a part of the building’s entrance.”

Colin is not sure, but that could mean he will not have to pay for his injury after all. Not everything, anyway. His burgeoning hopes crumble down when Jason adds, contrite:

“The video makes the difference. There are cameras up there, in the lobby, one outside—all taping what happens on the platform. Security should have picked up on the incident, but as you heard on the phone they were… I dunno. Comparing the tastes of their lattes, perhaps. We almost never need them, so they tend to take long pauses. You’re only the third person to date to roll down the stairs, and for the first one it was not even considered our fault since the girl was looking at her phone instead of where she was going. Broke both of her legs and got a mean concussion.

Point is: if the video shows that you fell because the library staff failed to maintain the platform properly, and that you weren’t doing anything but walking, then this,” he gestures at Colin’s injury, “is on us. However, if it shows that someone pushed you, then it’s on  _them_  and there isn’t much anybody can do if you do not report this asshat to the police, so the cops can track him and have him prosecuted. Pushing someone down  _these_  stairs is straight up assault. But without an official complaint or if they can’t identify the attacker, St Aden’s might have to take care of most of the costs. Do you understand?”

Colin feels nauseated. He closes his eyes, tries to stop his irregular sobs, can hear Jason whispering ‘ _shit, shit, I’m sorry, please don’t cry, shit_ ’, and wishes to disappear. He struggles to avoid another attack. He tells himself that it would not be fair to Jason. That’s not enough, but it helps a little.

 

The voice they heard on the phone hails Jason’s name from the steps above. Colin opens his eyes, sucks in a breath. A woman sporting a fitted man suit and coloured ribbons in her hair is crouching by him a few seconds later.

“Oh dear,” she whines, “oh dear, honey, how bad were you hurt? You’re one of the orphanage kids, aren’t you? I’m sorry it took me so long, Jay, I couldn’t find what you asked for at first. Here it is—will this do? Wait, kiddo, I’ll give you some tissues, you seem in such pain. Poor you, must have been quite a shock. Jason, you called 911, right? What about the nuns? Fuck, why aren’t they here by now?”

Jason takes the splint and two ice packs from her grip, as well as what appears to be a lengthy, red winter scarf she tossed over her shoulders. He is pleasant and confident enough when he tells her:

“Calm down, Nell. He’s doing fine. And yes, you’ve found just what I needed. Cheers. You can climb back up if you want, I’ve got the situation under control. I’ll stay with the kid here a bit longer, we haven’t called the nuns yet. Here, Colin, think you can sit up on the steps? I’ll secure your injury. Tell me if you feel lightheaded.”

They both extend their hands for Colin to grab, which he does. Straightening up is in no way less painful than laying down; quite the contrary. His back and hips must be but maps of contusions. When the teen is on his knees—his  _damn_  knees—Jason helps him sit down on the first step of the stairway by carefully twisting his body around. Nell comes to sit on the second step, further on the right. Now that Colin can see his forearm more clearly, he is not so sure anymore that fainting is off his to-do list. The swelling is impossible to miss, and the discoloration evident. It does not look too crooked, though, or not as much as he thought it would, all things considered. Jason seems to agree with that.

“It’s fractured, yes, but on the bright side I don’t think you will need surgery.”

Both Nell and Colin exhale in relief.

“No dizziness?”

“No,” Colin mumbles. “Well, a little, because my arm looks like…  _this_. Man, I hate biology. Does it show?”

Jason snorts, a grin reaching his teal eyes. He opens the splint, positions the ice packs inside so that they will cover the swollen area in its entirety when wrapped around Colin’s forearm. His movements are nimble and the pain kept minimal when he proceeds to adjust and later close the splint around the injury. He uses the metal hoops to fix the scarf until everything is immobilized as safely as possible, all while keeping Colin comfortable. When he is satisfied with his work, he looks at the teen expectantly.

“Good?”

“I… Yeah. Thank you. Thank you so much. I will… I dunno. I’ll pray for you during morning Mass?”

“Fair deal,” Jason smirks, before he turns to his colleague. “Nell, the ER is close, so I’ll call Sister Agnes when I’ll escort the boy there. It’s better than waiting some more, and besides there are  _so_  many kids there, I’m not even sure she could arrange their supervision at this hour with the other nuns running from one errand to the other.” ( _Colin acquiesces at that, his lips forming a tight line._ ) “I’ll need the surveillance tapes to determine the legal actions to come, if any. If the guys pester you about me leaving before my shift starts or taking decisions while Kate isn’t here, then please remind them that these situations are covered in my contract. If they knew first aid and spent less time at the café, then they’d also get to boss people around and ride taxis and ambulances—just like us cool kids do. Seems that I’ll miss work tonight, though. I was only here as an extra anyway. Could you please see if anyone would be willing to cover my shift? I’m sure Harper and Cullen can manage on their own, but… I’ll notify Kate myself, by the way.”

Nell gets up, grumbles when she notices that her beautiful suit is wet on her flank and under her thighs. In the emergency, her care was more directed at Colin than the dampness of the stairs. She still smiles at the redhead, her eyes traveling from him to the library multiple times. At last she whispers a quick ‘ _okay_ ’ to Jason, nods and waves at Colin, and turns her heels to climb the stairway. She stops mid-way to grab a pack of tissue from her inside pocket, and throws it at Jason who sends her a kiss when he catches it, earning a wink from her. When Nell is out of sight, the librarian offers Colin a tissue. The boy starts to wipe away the water and the snot on his face, ashamed that it has probably made him look like a child who had just gone through a temper tantrum so far. It takes a second, then a third tissue to finish the job, and after that he is too weak to function.

Jason hasn’t called any ambulance or taxi so far, which Colin knows is because his injury is not life-threatening, and because the man doesn’t want to scare him  _that_ much. But, in the end, he understands that he will not be able to escape a visit to the ER and the subsequent bills that will most likely put the orphanage in financial trouble. He can imagine what the videotapes will show. The simple thought of having to lie to Sister Agnes ( _again_ ) is poisoning his mind.

This is bad. This is bad. This is  _bad_.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason Todd is almost convinced that he should  _not_  link each bruise on the kid to the accident in the stairway. In fact, he knows (plain and simple) that three of them are unrelated to the fall. He noticed these right from the start. It’s not a ‘ _been there, done that_ ’ type of situation, but a ‘ _seen it, lost people to it_ ’ predicament that he cannot let go of now that it crosses his path again. He has to help. He needs help himself—fast.

Colin is once again livid, lost in thoughts. The fear caused by the uncertainty of his situation and the guilty feelings regarding the financial burden the injury will cause to St Aden’s do not surprise Jason. He understands these things. He knows it can get better. Grabbing his phone, he speed-dials one of the most important persons in his life. Tim accepts the call relatively late.

“Sorry, Jay,” his voice is hushed. “This meeting is taking  _forever_. By the way, if you hear about W.E. everywhere tonight or tomorrow, it will be because Bruce is about to strangle the prince we’ve got in here. Or maybe I’ll strangle him myself. You’d bail me out, right?”

“Wow, Timbo…” Jason fakes outrage, feels Colin’s questioning gaze from his place on the stairs. “A  _jail_  joke? I’m offended. Glad I helped you escape for a while, though.”

Tim chuckles in response before he softly answers: “As happy as I am to talk to you, I was already about to exit the room. I pretended to have forgotten a file downstairs—oldest trick in the book. Worked like a charm. But I’ll have to go back upstairs pretty soon, so if this is a social call…”

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha.” Jason puts a hand on Colin’s right shoulder. The kid does not peep a word. “I need  _help_ , Tim.”

There is a pause on the line. Jason can hear Tim close a door, push a chair back, and sit with a sigh.

“I am guessing that it doesn’t involve making rainbow latkes at Aunt Kate’s in preparation for next Hanukkah.”

“ _No_ ,” Jason laughs. “ _My_   _word_ , no. Please forget I ever had this idea, or asked for your and  _Bruce_ ’s help, of all things. Kate still reminds me of this mess, like, three times a week. No. I need a car, and I need it asap. And also for W.E. to pay hospital bills. And to see Bruce today.”

Tim curses over the phone. Jason expected no less of a reaction. In six years, he has asked for Tim’s help eight times in total, and it always demonstrated interesting outcomes so far. Today, he knows that his request, as well as what he will ask Bruce later, surpass all his previous stunts.

“I’ve got to say, Jason Todd, you almost never ask for anything, but when you do it always sounds like trouble and goes down to a disaster. I’m  _in_. I obviously cannot come to pick you up myself right now, but if you’re at the library, the guys are around. I can send them a text, and if it’s urgent, then they’ll come to give you a lift to Gotham General.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you break any bone? Was it… Was there a fight?”

Jason recoils at the sudden quivers in Tim’s voice. By reflex, he moves closer to Colin and protects the boy’s body as best as he can, wishing to be able to do the same for his brother right now. He soon realizes that his prompt movement is confusing the teen, to say the least, so he bends back, puts on a sheepish smile, and resumes his conversation as if nothing happened.

“No. The market place is safe, Tim, alright? Cameras everywhere, fights are picked up and managed fast, and no one wanna get caught in it. No, it wasn’t that, but one of St Aden’s kids had an accident on the library’s stairs. A broken arm aside, he seems fine, but I think he still needs to be checked in a hospital. By doctors—discrete ones. Like Leslie and Steph?”

“Yes, I got it.” He types a text as he speaks. “I’ll call them right after we stop talking and will ask if they can take him in as an exception—t _another_  one. Although, I can’t promise you that their day isn’t full, private practice or not. I'm not sure what our options for the whole bill thing are, so I’ll call you back after briefing dad on the situation. Or he will call you. Looks like you’ve given me a real reason to exit this meeting early, after all.”

“I consider pizza an acceptable mean of payment.”

“So do _I_.” ( _Jason can hear Tim’s smirk, and it eases his mind_.) “Damian wrote me back, they’ll be in the parking lot behind the library in about five minutes. As for meeting up with dad, you can just come over, no need for a plan. He’ll always make time and room for you, you know?”

Jason wants to answer ‘ _yes_ ’, to accept the implications behind Tim’s words. He doesn’t. He calls Bruce ‘ _dad_ ’ in private conversations with his friends, with Kate, with Bruce himself sometimes, but never with the man’s official children. He doesn’t want to rob them of what he doesn’t have a technical right to own.

And, boy, does Jason love the Waynes. They are his relatives of choice, his anchors, these unbreakable boxes he fills up with all the kindness, courage and compassion he used to leave to waste for years but gets to spend at last without keeping tabs, so that he can stock up on some more, infinitely more, and give back just as much. He feels cared for the same. It never mattered that there was nothing legal or even spoken clearly about what his place in the family is. They are the truths he breathes; his home and garden, packed with empty rooms and thriving seeds to nurture for every season.

“I’ll see you around, Jay?”

“Yeah. Sure thing. You’re saving us, Tim.”

“No problem. No fight in the car, uh?”

Jason chuckles, thanks Tim again, cuts the line, then turns his attention back to Colin, whose expression betrays inner conflict. He is most likely thinking about how low his chances of getting off the hook are, now that he heard that some arrangements have been made for him to access proper care. Jason steps on his train of thoughts.

“Okay, kiddo, here’s what we’re going to do: we get you to Gotham General, you don’t worry about the bill or anything, and you don’t sell whatever you’ll hear in the car to the media. Trust me, we’re not that interesting. They also don’t pay much.” He marks a pause, waiting for a bit until Colin nods, still clearly doubtful. “I’m not here to bring you trouble, I swear. My… the Wayne kids will come to pick us up, and we’ll get your arm examined by friends of the family. Friends of mine, too.”

Jason doesn’t know whether Colin could understand that whole ‘ _family_ ’ thing. He has to remember that not many people do; orphans are no exception. Colin nods again, resolutely silent.

“I’ll call Sister Agnes while Leslie or Steph will take care of you, and explain to her that since I feel personally responsible for what happened to you, Bruce Wayne stepped up to cover the hospital bills in my name. I’ll then go make penance for my lie in a church far enough that the nuns’ chances of ever hearing about it will be reduced to none. Please keep a thought for me during Mass, though, better have my ass covered quickly in case I cannot travel for a bit.”

Overall, the kid does not seem convinced a great deal, and Jason cannot blame him for that. The Waynes’ considerations had also troubled him at first. He had resisted it for the longest time, trapped in his own guilt and the fear that he’d be in debt of people who can have everything money can buy—things as well as  _other people_. He learned to let this go. He hopes Colin will learn too, in time. There is something else Jason wants to tell the boy, but he is not sure how, so he dives into it straight and prays to avoid a meltdown.

“We’ll also have to talk about the bruises on your neck.”

A shiver runs through Colin’s spine, causing his forearm to hurt visibly more for an instant. Terror is written all over his face. To his credit, he is fast to conceal it.

“It’s okay,” Jason says, very low, holding his hands up in reassurance. “Look, you don’t owe me an explanation. I'm not here to judge you. That’s not how it should go, right? But that's not okay. Whatever is happening—it doesn't look okay. We're getting you the emergency help you need for now, but afterward, I hope you'll give me the chance to help with _this_ as well.”

Colin frowns, biting his lower lip. The last wave of pain drained almost all of his remaining energy.

“I don’t need anything,” he lies, all softness and no edge.

“Yeah, you might wanna think about  _your_  case as well during that morning Mass.”

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps Jason thinks that someone beats him up, or that he is part of a gang. Colin is not sure which option would be worse. It’s still preferable to the truth, yes, but there is still a solid possibility that Jason understands  _exactly_  what is going on in the teen’s life. He is from around here too, after all, and it is not that rare to see kids Colin’s age roaming these streets at night with the fear of getting caught by a cop or a mad man. Whatever he is thinking, though, Jason does not give the impression that he will report Colin’s case anywhere. He is even willing to lie, despite seemingly standing by the same gospels the nuns preach, the ones Colin struggles to live with. He chides himself for thinking of Jason as an enemy. He is also very,  _impossibly_  scared of meeting the Waynes.

While the librarian guides him toward the back of the building, Colin tries to remember everything he read about Bruce Wayne’s heirs. He is not that curious by nature, so there is not much to recall. The eldest one teaches gymnastics to the youth around town and makes himself scarce in public events. Timothy Drake-Wayne is famous enough that everyone knows him and can envy his intellect, his position, the bright future he is promised to. Colin is not sure he could pick either one of them in a crowd with certitude. He however remembers with clarity what Damian, the youngest and sole biological son, looks like. The press tends to hate him for various reasons, among which his origins and unapproachable demeanour. Colin’s crush on the guy is the size of the Sun, the Earth and Heaven combined.

 

A black car, more discreet and common than Colin was expecting to find, is waiting for them in the parking lot. Jason encourages him to settle behind the driver seat as he opens the door for him. It is not easy to get inside without hurting his arm, but the teen manages to sit somewhat comfortably in the end. In the mirror, he meets the face and sympathetic smile of Bruce Wayne’s eldest son.

“Hi there! I’m Dick. Tim told us you fell from the stairs? Sorry it happened to you, hum…”

“Uh, hey, I’m Colin,” he stutters. “Thank you for the ride, really, it’s… Thank you.”

“Nah, don’t mention it. Always happy to help.”

The person in the passenger seat, upper body dressed in a white cotton jacket, rises their left hand to reach and move the mirror a little. The redhead holds his breath, biting his tongue. Damian Wayne’s green eyes are piercing, contrasting nicely with his olive skin and black, untidy hair, his expression annoyed as he reviews Colin’s features and appears not to find interest in what he sees. Dick casts his brother a glance that could be either reproach or fondness—maybe a mixture of both. When Jason enters the car, sits behind Damian and proceeds to help Colin buckle up, the green-eyed teen goes back to whatever he was reading on his smartphone, while Dick coos with enthusiasm.

“Jaybird! It’s been so long!”

“Dork,” the librarian snorts. “Don’t believe the guy, Colin. We dined together two nights ago.”

“Well, that is  _many_  hours,” Dick retorts, faking a whine. He then starts the engine and adds: “Seatbelt, Jay. Damian, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to twist the mirror back where it was because I can’t see enough of the road anymore, okay?”

Colin realizes that he hasn’t stopped looking at Damian’s face in the tiny space allowing him to do so. When the young heir’s eyes meet his again, they are no less hostile than before. Damian does not answer his brother’s question directly, but nods before he puts his phone down and grabs a notepad from the top of the dashboard.

“Great,” Dick approves as he adjusts the mirror, then the gear. “Now, to Gotham General.”

“How’s Bruce?” Jason asks, and Colin notices the worry behind the casual tone.

“He’s good. Well, maybe not right now, what with the prince Tim and he must deal with today and all, but he’s doing fine enough. He rejoices in the fact that Kate caught his flu because she insisted on coming to taunt him every day while he was trying to rest.”

“How  _lovely_  of him.”

“Right? Alfred thought so as well. He didn’t cook him breakfast, this morning, in retaliation.”

Jason laughs, and it sounds so sincere that Colin could listen to it all day instead of focusing on the splint around his arm. Dick is a smooth driver, thank God, however every swing on the road increases the pain Colin’s brain is registering. It must be showing, because Dick tells him:

“I’m sorry, Colin, the roads are busy at this hour. We’ll be there in five minutes at most, although I might have to brake often.”

“Oh,  _no_ ,” Colin winces. “Please don’t apologize. You didn’t even have to do any of this in the first place.”

“Ah,” Dick chuckles, “I see. Would you and Jason happen to know each other for long, by any chance?”

“You  _dick_.” Jason clicks his tongue. “Colin’s a regular at the library, but we just saw each other from afar until today.”

“I see.”

There has been a slight change in dynamic. Colin cannot tell what provoked it, because he is tired, because clenching his teeth in an attempt to manage his building panic does not help him concentrate. He looks up when he hears Richard scolding Damian, only to find out that the other teen has once again angled the mirror so they can observe each other. Colin can read what appears to be curiosity coming from the young man he may or may not want to touch to make sure that he’s real, that they are truly sharing the same air in this instant. He knows this is stupid. He can live with judgement. When Jason intercepts their uneasy staring contest, he bends forward and starts to pat Damian’s left upper arm.

“And how are  _you_ , brat?”

Damian breaks eye contact, but relaxes at the touch.

“As you can see, Todd, I am well. Thank you for your concern.”

Colin has read in several questionable articles that Damian Wayne became a full-time resident of the United States shortly after his fourteenth birthday, a bit over three years ago. Due to his lack of communication with the public, many suggested that he was simply unable to speak English for a while. Such efforts of journalism were openly ridiculed by the other members of the Wayne family—with reason.

As far as Colin can hear, words come to Damian in a natural rhythm, and the faint thickness of his accent makes them sing a story the redhead yearns to listen to.

“Here,” Dick says as they exit a boulevard. “Let’s get you to the East wing entrance, so you’ll be close to Leslie’s office.”

“Thanks, Dickie. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do. Pair with me during the next ‘ _Double Dash’_  family night?”

“But then  _who_  would team up with Damian?”

In the mirror, the young heir’s expression melts into an entirely new picture as he scoffs. Grinning wide, a glimpse of mischief in his eyes, Damian turns around to be face-to-face with Jason.

“As if I needed  _you_  with me to win,” he mocks. “Next week’s champions get to choose father’s birthday gift. Neither of you two should be trusted with such task.”

“How  _dare_  you?” Jason yelps, but both he and Dick start to laugh a second later.

 

* * *

 

 

Dick drops them off just feet away from the hospital door. Colin will not stop thanking him, thanking Damian (who feigns indifference), or apologizing for everything he can think of. Jason finds it sort of adorable, but mainly sad and stressful. He starts to comprehend the plausible impossibility to complete the project he committed himself to. Despite the clear differences in their respective situations, Colin is as stubborn, as small, and as adrift as Jason was when he was sixteen, until Bruce and Alfred and his makeshift siblings knitted the safety net that stopped his fall right before he got in too deep. Somehow, Jason thought that he could do the same thing for somebody else.

He understands, of course, that this is not a realistic plan. To this day, he can hardly make it through most of the nights without calling Bruce, or without sleeping by Dick’s side. He never finds the right things to say when Tim goes non-verbal for days on end. Damian has been shutting him down, lately. He seldom finds ways to help Bruce, or even Dick, when their deep-rooted wounds get the best of them.

And yet, here he is, trying to convince a kid who  _definitely_  mingles with violent people with adult-size hands that he can trust him, that Jason somehow holds the power to make everything stop.

Jason is an  _idiot_.

 

They enter the building in haste. Stephanie, pink strands matching her scrubs and standing out from her blond hair she tied in a tight bun, is waiting for them in the lobby. She smiles when she sees Jason and opens her arms wide. He agrees to the hug, lets it linger longer than necessary. Steph doesn’t mention that.

“I’d say that it is good to see you, Jay, but…”

“Yeah. Same.” Jason enjoins Colin to come closer. “Steph, this is Colin. As you can see, he needs you and Leslie to work out some magic.”

“Indeed. Hello, Colin. It’s nice to meet you. I won’t be examining you today, I’ve promised to help some of my colleagues upstairs, but Dr Thompkins will see you immediately. She’s super-nice, don’t worry, we’ll fix your arm in no time. Please follow me?”

The kid blushes, fear in his eyes. Jason pushes him toward the nurse, whispering encouragements.

“Ah, by the way, about the papers…”

“We don’t need it,” she cuts in quietly. “Not now, at least, Bruce and Leslie can deal with it later. Special case. Don’t  _you_  know how these go?”

Jason smiles at her, but dismisses the question. When Stephanie and Colin disappear further down the hallway, he steps outside the building to call Sister Agnes. He lies to her once, twice, assures her that surgery is not needed (at this point, he still has  _no_  idea) and that the bills are covered (‘ _please consider it a heartfelt piece of charity_ ’), tells her that he will bring Colin back to the orphanage as soon as the doctors release him.

She listens in silence, her rare words grave. She sees through his lies, Jason thinks, but she doesn’t comment on them. When Jason asks her how Colin is doing in his studies and whether the boy goes out at night alone, she chooses to answer ‘ _he has nowhere else to go’;_  and it sounds sad, a little scared and close,  _so close_  to a call for help that Jason decides that what he is doing is right. The call ends shortly thereafter. Jason goes back inside, takes a seat in a waiting area and grabs a crossword magazine. He will be here for a while.

 

An hour passes until Jason’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He puts the magazine down, collects his jacket, and scurries outside to pick up the call. ‘ _Dad_ ’ is flashing on the screen.

“Bruce.”

“Hello, Jason.” Bruce’s voice is warm despite the audible fatigue. “How are you? Did the child make it back to St Aden’s yet?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m fine, but Colin is still in there, and he is more a teenager than a child. Not quite sure how old he is—younger than Damian, though.”

“I see,” Bruce sighs. “What happened? Tim said your story lacked in detail.”

“Tim was in a hurry, and Colin was in pain. I’m sorry if I worried you. The kid fell, or most likely was pushed from the top of the main stairway. I arrived at the same time.”

“Someone  _pushed_  him? Are you sure?”

“I… yes. He wouldn’t say so, but people on the scene were discussing it when I arrived. Surveillance tapes might tell us more.”

“Did you call the police?”

“ _No_. He won’t press charges. He’s afraid, I think he doesn’t want the cops to find out… You know. Other things.”

“So is this what it’s all about?”

Jason does not need to answer this question. It was rhetorical, and the tone used said just as much. There is a long silence on the line, before Bruce finally says:

“It’s alright, Jason. Your reasons don’t matter for now, he’s an orphan from a poor home, and if we can help him then we will. I’ll deal with Leslie and the bills. However, I’m not sure that I should let you follow up with his case—because that’s what you were going to do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I was also wondering  _who_  passed this habit on to me.”

Bruce huffs. “I blame Alfred. He had such high hopes for me and was so earnest in his efforts that it gave me no choice but to rebound. My methods pale compared to his. Even so, as you’re aware, it’s not all success and sunny days.”

“I… yeah.  _Yeah_.”

Jason first feared the withdrawn state Bruce goes through every now and then. It is frightening, dangerous— _desperate_. But as time went by, and as the man kept on showing up to comfort him when things went South, regardless of his own feelings, Jason learnt to love and trust this side of the billionaire just as much as he did his honesty, his strength, and his relentless determination to lead his children on a path of peace over perfection.

“You’ll do it anyway,” Bruce states, and there is no reprimand nor discontentment in his words.

“Yes. Bruce, I need a favour. A big one.”

“Shoot.”

“If Colin doesn’t get a job, he’ll keep doing… whatever dangerous thing he is doing now. He shouldn’t. Please find him something at W.E.?”

He is aware that it is much to ask, that W.E.’s Human Resources are already drowning under open applications from qualified workers who’ve been waiting for the opportunity for months, sometimes for years. People considerably more fit than Colin to work in industries with standards kept so high.

“Jay…”

“I know. I  _know_. But you can’t give money to St Aden’s, right? It’s a  _convent_ , and government-sponsored. They receive support and extra donations from both sides, but like every house packed with orphans, they always lack stuffs at the end of the month. To be honest I don’t believe they need the money  _that_  bad to put enough bread on the table, but perhaps Colin is persuaded that they do, or maybe it’s just that he wants better or more stuffs for the tots there…”

“Jason,” Bruce interrupts. “Are you at least certain that the kid is involved in some kind of bad business?”

“ _Yes_.”

He knows. The local priest, old and frail, rarely visits St Aden’s. Sister Agnes has been in charge of everything for years. The kids go to decent schools in a neighbouring district. The marks Colin is displaying were made by strong, wide hands. Besides, Colin’s first thought was that Jason was calling the  _cops_ , not an ambulance, and that was the last straw that stripped all doubt away from Jason’s mind.

“Bruce, I can tell. I’m  _certain_.”

“I believe you. I guess you’ve seen it enough.” A few seconds of silence pass. Jason can practically hear Bruce weigh in the situation in a new light. “Apart from the fact that he has no experience, I also assume that he has no special skills that could justify me creating hours in the budget for him. Or does he?”

“I… I dunno.”

Jason hasn’t had a panic attack in months, and he intends to keep it that way. He sits on the ground, right by the entrance door, waits for Bruce to speak again.

“You understand that this will be difficult to pull off.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but I  _have_  to ask. I can’t do much for him myself, Bruce. I don’t have the means to, I’m not…”

He leaves this sentence incomplete. There’s no shortage of salt on this particular wound. For years, Bruce has asked—and on occasion  _begged_ —for Jason to allow the Waynes to adopt him, to no avail. Jason refused, time and time again, in spite of the nightmares and the ache in his chest as he constantly craved for a ‘ _yes_ ’ to escape his lips someday. Truth is, Jason filled out the necessary paperwork, once, some time before he turned nineteen. He backed down the next day when he saw Bruce on edge, nervous, struggling to keep Damian from falling apart. He simply couldn’t add to the pain. He burned the papers.

He never told Bruce about it, of course. It was a secret, one he only confessed to Dick last summer after one too many drinks. Nobody else should ever know, because it would hurt, because Dick  _was_ hurt; because if Bruce got wind that they could have been officially related all this time had Jason not witnessed a rare moment of weakness, his heart would shatter in too many pieces to mend. Jason couldn’t live with such guilt.

“You  _could be_ ,” Bruce begins, but he leaves it at that. “I will check what the state of the internships for the next two quarters is, alright? Usually we only employ graduates, or people about to be, but perhaps we could squeeze in something that doesn’t require much qualifications and wouldn’t be illegal nor attention-grabbing.”

“Thanks, B.”

“Now, what I can offer him today is a meeting in… three days? Tim and I can take a short lunch break until one and meet up with Colin afterwards to discuss what his skills are, if there is anything that could make him stand out for specific tasks, and most importantly whether he  _wants_  it or not. You cannot force him to do any of that, Jason—please don’t convince yourself otherwise. He if chooses to go back to his wrong doings, then there is little you can do about it.”

“I won’t fool myself, I swear. Thank you so much, Bruce, I know you’re going out of your way for this. For  _me_. I’ll stop by to make cookies tonight, alright? I’ll talk to Colin and Sister Agnes about the meeting when I’ll bring him back.”

“On that note, and as a father, I believe that you should  _probably_  call the police or report Colin to CPS. If this kid can go around doing unlawful work, then perhaps St Aden’s is not fit to keep him—or children altogether.”

Jason sighs. He thought about this in more depth, within the past hour, and the conclusions he drew were not as simple as he hoped for.

“Thing is, Colin is the oldest by at least three or four years. They don’t keep teenagers there and especially not  _boys_. Most of the kids they raise are primary school age, but that’s because people tend to adopt or at least permanently foster these children at some point. In general, it works, but when it doesn’t, kids age twelve or thirteen are thrown back elsewhere into the system, and they are not tough enough to fit in. Apart from their obsession with good manners, the nuns are too soft. Plus, there’s the whole ‘ _grew up in a convent_ ’ thing. Doesn’t prepare  _any_  of them to the life in group homes or to a string of foster families, but sure makes for easy targets.

I have no idea why Colin is still living there. There  _must_  be reasons, of course. But reporting him would not only cause the kid trouble, it’d also be chaos for St Aden’s as a whole. That’d be about twenty kids going wherever there’s space, and you know as well as I do that there ain’t space anymore, they just pile cases by now. It’s nobody’s fault, but that’s how it is. If we call CPS, who will take these kids in? The nuns try their hardest, I swear, but they are old, Bruce, and not professional nannies or  _prison guards_. Colin is a teenager, they do crazy stuffs sometimes. Running away is no new trick, and ‘sides, if he never breaks any other rule and always comes home before dawn, then chances are the sisters have  _no_ damn clue that he was even gone. Pretty sure he has his own room, since he’s almost a man. We  _can’t_  report his case, Bruce, it’d have awful consequences and it’d be _all Colin’s fault_. It doesn’t have to be like this, he just needs a little help, please…”

“Jason,  _please_  calm down.  _Breathe_.”

Jason does as he’s told, inhales deeply, straightens his back.  _Eight seconds in, hold for four, out in six_. It takes a whole minute for the rhythm to settle in. From the other end of the parking lot, a nurse walking back from his cigarette break is giving him a pointed stare, ready to jump into action. Jason reassures him with a fake grin and a wave of the hand. After the nurse enters the building and his breathing evens out, the young man murmurs:

“It’s not about me, Bruce, and you know it. I was but a witness back then, not the pawn in action. I was  _lucky_. I don’t wanna be passive or count the bodies anymore, you know?”

“I  _remember_. Look, Jay, you are in charge this time, alright? You call the shots on what to do with this kid, whether we should alert someone, anything. Please understand that this is not an easy position, and don’t let the situation become dangerous for either of you—at any level. I trust that you would never let anything potentially harmful near our family, and therefore, like I said, I will try to find some light work Colin could do. However, you  _have_  to be prepared for this hunt to amount to nothing. If that is the case, then I’ll look for a loophole to send money to the convent without alerting anyone. That would be a real feat, with all of these paparazzi on my ass and a solid ten thousand souls in this city ready to publicly destroy our integrity for whatever sum the tabloids agree to pay, but we’ll find a way. We always do.”

 

* * *

 

Colin hates his cast already, and he hasn’t even spent thirty minutes with it so far. God took pity of him, or so it seems, because only one of his bone is fractured, albeit not too lightly.

“Five weeks,” Dr Thompkins informs him. “We’ll check if everything is healed then, and if it’s not—or not well enough—then I’m afraid you will wear it a couple weeks more, and… oh, dear, please don’t pout like that, it won’t be so bad! You’re left-handed, so you won’t have to fill in notes or take tests at school for a whole month. How cool is that? I also heard that you are living with young children, and believe me, they’ll all want to draw on this thing. It will look joyful in no time.”

Stephanie, who just came back with a bag of pain medication, chuckles.

“It’s true. Did you know that Tim Drake-Wayne broke his leg, like, two years ago? Man, we drew all kind of atrocities on that thing. It was really fun.” 

“But Damian Wayne can draw well, can’t he?”

Both the doctor and the nurse send him questioning looks. Colin feels a blush spread on his chest, his face, up to the top of his ears.

“He’s always doing it,” he clarifies. “In magazines, or on TV, when they talk about the Waynes and show pictures or whatever, Damian is always doodling something. He also sports paint marks on his hands, sometimes. Am I wrong?”

Stephanie shakes her head, a sly smile on her lips.

“No. But he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. Dr Thompkins finishes to type in notes on her computer, before she prints them out and gives them to the nurse.

“Here,” she says. “Everything you need to know about your medication, young man. You should have enough painkillers and anti-inflammatory pills to last at least four weeks, but if that’s not the case please drop by, and we’ll give you some more. Don’t worry about the price. We’ll have Bruce or Jason bring in candies as a ‘ _thank you_ ’.”

“Sorry to ask, but how legal is that?”

“Depends. Money and mud cakes are powerful forces.”

 

Colin is not quite sure why he was hoping for it, but Jason is still waiting for him in the lobby, his smirk somewhat amused. The way the tension in his shoulders drops at once expresses genuine relief.

“See?” he teases. “No surgery—told you. Look at me, Steph, ready to come working and saving lives with you here at last!”

“Why, my knight, ain’t I hearing great news!” The nurse crunches her nose, beaming as she gives Jason the bag she was still carrying. “Take care of that shrimp, please. The rest of his body is still breakable. You too, Colin, take care of yourself. No stairs for a while.”

“I live in a convent.”

“The good thing about it is that we’ll meet again very,  _very_  soon.”

Colin snorts, amused. The painkillers have kicked in, that much he can tell. He is about to thank Stephanie for her services a hundred times over, but another nurse trots to them before he gets the chance to do so. He can hear her whisper in a rush—‘ _Steph, please help?_ ’—which prompts the blonde to exit the room after a quick ‘ _goodbye_ ’ and a kiss sent Jason’s way. He misses her already.

 

They take a taxi that stops blocks away from St Aden’s, at Jason’s request. Colin has dreaded this moment since the librarian hinted that he caught on the kind of job the boy does for quick money. When they step outside the car, he thinks for a second about the lies he could tell— _more lies_. The idea exhausts him to the point of nausea. With his good hand, he reaches for the nearest wall, leaning as he tries to regulate his respiration. Jason gets closer to him once the taxi is gone.

“Try to hold your breath for a few seconds,” he instructs. “It might help.”

It is laborious at first. Jason’s palm drawing circles on his back helps him focus, but the fear is here, spreading in every cell of his body until it is the only thing he can feel. He tries to repress tears, but in vain. Jason steps on his left so he can look at his face. He sounds awfully quiet.

“If you’re worried that I’ll rat you out, then don’t be. I won’t. But you’ll  _have_  to talk to me, Colin, and to accept my help, because your life can’t go on the way it does now. Do you understand?”

Colin does not answer. He has  _no fucking clue_. Perhaps a voice inside him is ready to scream for help right now; the same one that has been begging for forgiveness since the boy allowed men to break his skin and tramp his faith, filling the cracks with sins and leaving these to rot. Perhaps Colin is not even  _willing_  to understand. This afternoon has felt surreal enough that he has wondered a couple times whether God put it on his path as the decisive moment for him to pick a side. But maybe there is no road to expiation anymore.

Letting Jason in on his mistakes would affect everybody he knows, and even the _Waynes_  now that they somehow got involved with a kid the likes of Colin. On the other hand, rejecting Jason’s help might give enough leverage to the librarian, and who knows what he'd do after taking a step back and allowing the night to nurture new perspectives on what he saw? Colin could lie and tell Jason that yes, he understands, that he wants some help, and lie some more in later time when asked if he stopped getting on his knees and accepting violence. He could lie and tell him that he doesn’t need his help. He could lie. And lie again. And lie some more.

 _Lord, for once, please paint truths on my lips, cram my throat with Your words. Please help. Please_  help.

“It is getting a bit too public to stay here, kid. Come on, grab my sleeve. I’ll guide us through quieter streets.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce never talks about how hurtful it might have been for him, at first, to see Jason push him away. Sixteen years of neglect and a screwed-up sense of loyalty were difficult to break through.

Jason remembers the details that made it so natural for him to trust the Waynes, to call them family. He remembers Bruce, holding him in the shower after a violent meltdown, murmuring promises amid proofs of fatherly love, never touching him if not with sheer care and respect. He remembers Tim, always so light, climbing on his back and whispering: ‘ _I’m so happy we met_ ’. The cheap recipes Alfred texted him. Dick, wrapped in Martha Wayne’s light blue shawl, reading him and Cassandra to sleep. The first time Damian publicly called him his ‘ _brother_ ’.

He remembers the storms, and the hurt and the crises; the cold honesty Bruce spoke to anchor him in reality. He remembers  _needing_  that.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Colin says.

And Jason replies, “Tough luck.”

Like Bruce once did.

 

* * *

 

 

Colin has decided that he wanted, that he  _needed_  Jason’s help; he owes it to the young man to at least give it a try. But talking about what he does is beyond his current level of energy, of reason. Where does he begin? What does Jason want to hear? Panic is numbing his mind, his movements. He only takes two steps before he finds himself too anxious to carry on.

“We’ve got time,” Jason reassures him. “St Aden’s is only ten streets away, don’t worry. May I ask you some questions?”

Colin wonders how he has not passed out yet. Perhaps it’s the tone Jason uses, frank yet gentle, or because he has accumulated enough shame to last for a while. He feels exhausted and refuses to fight.

“Okay.”

Jason’s smile is broad, infinitely kind. “Thank you. Some might not be easy, but I only expect short answers, so ‘ _yes_ ’ or ‘ _no_ ’ will be enough. Alright?”

He leads Colin in a narrow alley. It’s still daylight, so the place is quiet. They sit down on the steps in front of what appears to be an abandoned building. They cannot hear much of the sounds of the city from this spot. Colin’s nerves are about to break.

“So,” Jason begins. “Am I wrong to think that you are involved in illegal activities?”

Colin sucks in a quick breath.

“No. You’re not wrong.”

“Good. I mean… yeah, good. Do you fight with people?”

“No.”

“Do you sleep with them?”

“I…  _no_.” The question is too broad for Colin to be certain of what Jason means.

“Do you have sexual relationships with them?” he clarifies. “Blowjobs and handjobs count.”

Colin doesn’t need to reply. He bites his tongue too hard, cannot help but give Jason a panicked look.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“You’re… How old are you, Colin?”

“Sixteen. Seventeen in seven weeks.”

“Yeah, you’re a  _kid_ ,” Jason winces. “And small for your age— _Jesus_. Listen, those who should be sorry are the adults using you. They should be sent to jail, for they have no excuse whatsoever not to have called the cops the very moment they met you.  _None_. You’re not responsible for their poor life choices and their blatant negligence. Got it?”

Colin averts his eyes. He is positive that he could drop anytime. His left arm is a pain despite the cast and the meds. The lack of air is dizzying, and blood is beating at his temples. Jason sighs, shakes his head and crosses his arms, his expression contrite.

“And I don’t have much of an excuse myself. I  _should_  bring you to the nearest station, or at least call CPS. As I swore to you, though, I won’t. Unless you want me to?”

“ _No_.”

“Right.” Jason comes closer and kneels so he can be face-to-face with Colin, staring straight into his eyes. “Look, those bruises on your neck are alarming. Some of these men are violent, aren’t they? How did you even hide that shit from the nuns?”

The teen frowns. “Scarf yesterday. Pretended that it’s hickeys today. From a girlfriend.” Jason casts him a sharp look, but Colin shrugs. “I  _lie_.”

“Have you met with more than one man so far? Five? Ten?”

“Nine.”

“Do the nuns know?”

“No.” He bows his head down. “Their night patrol schedule is always the same, and I’ve been living there for so long… I have my own room now, so it’s easier. I just go out for an hour at a time, two if I go farther or… you know. Good night of sorts. Not every night. Not every week, even. It’s… it’s okay.”

“Colin, no—none of this is ‘ _okay_ ’. You’re a kid, it’s _never_ okay. Do you understand that?”

He imagines Damian Wayne listening to this conversation; these green, beautiful eyes looking at him with disdain, the gleam gone. Jason’s thumb in tracing circles on the back of his right hand, and Colin wants to scream. Instead, he controls his breathing as best as he can, until Jason amends:

“Does a  _rational_  part of you understands that?”

“ _Yes_.” It slips through his lips before he even thinks. He barely recognizes his own voice. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. I can work with that. We  _will_ , you and I.” Jason gets up, helps Colin do the same. “We will go straight to St Aden’s now, but before we do so, new rule: this business of yours stops right here, right now, and can never come back.”

“No—please, you don’t understand,” Colin implores. “I— _the kids_ —need the money.”

“Yeah, I figured. I know what it’s like, ginger, alright? But please hear me out. First of all, the other kids at St Aden’s are  _not_  your responsibility. I won’t argue about it with you now, because I understand why you’d think they are, but on that level, they’re _not_. You are not in legal or financial charge of these kids, Colin. The nuns and the government are.”

There is blood mixed with his saliva when Colin represses a sob, spitting on the ground to get rid of the iron taste. He blames the meds that made him weak. He blames himself. He does not register immediately that he once again caught Jason’s sleeve and is tugging it hard, like holding on to a lifeline. The man seems both sad and hopeful.

“Now, about the money, I called Bruce Wayne today. We… We’re acquaintances. Obviously. I told him about your case. He agreed that I was in charge this time, so whatever shot I call about you, he’ll follow. He swore not to report you anywhere, and he’ll pay your hospital bill. Okay?” At this point, Colin is too scared to say anything. “He won’t tell a soul about you. Trust me—please. Bruce Wayne never does anything he promised not to, unless the situation becomes  _very_  dangerous. He is awesome like that. He understands the grey areas. He saved  _me_. He cannot send money to St Aden’s for ethical reasons, maybe legal ones too, I’m not so sure. Anyway, he is ready to set up a meeting with you at the main Wayne Enterprises building in three days at one o’clock. The goal will be to see if you could be qualified and willing to take a super-low-responsibility job there, something that’ll match your competences and pay you enough to keep you off the streets.”

Colin is not certain he understood it right. Jason formally met him mere hours ago and has already told  _Bruce ‘Gotham’s Hot Billionaire’ Wayne_  about him, got the man to pay for the cast,  _and_  somehow convinced him that Colin was worth more than two seconds of his time?

God did not send the librarian to help him; this is a  _curse_. Temptation and greed.

“No. No, Jason, please, I can’t accept that.”

“Of course you can.” Jason scowls, this time a bit annoyed. “How many choices do you have at hand, anyway? Please tell me, because I only see two of these, and one almost got you  _killed_  today.”

The redhead freezes. This did  _not_  occur to him so far, or not as bluntly as it does now that Jason spelled it out for him. Nausea and shame are taking over him again as he hides his face behind his right hand. In front of him, Jason closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose for the second time of the afternoon. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry I snapped at you. I’m not as good or as patient as Bruce was with these things. But you have no idea how worried I am about you. How worried Sister Agnes is. Aren’t  _you_  worried, Colin? Aren’t you scared of how your actions—how these men’s actions—will impact your future? How much do you value your own worth? Why have you given up on school? What image do you have of intimacy and relationships by now? And look, I get it, sometimes you’ve only got one option, and that’s  _exactly_  why I dug another one up for you. Please use it. You’ve got nothing to lose with it. Bruce will help you anyway, because I asked him to, and there is no favour we’d refuse one another. I’ll talk Sister Agnes into letting you attend the meeting. It could be a great opportunity.”

The nuns would tell him that charity is not only given; it’s received, and should be accepted, if only not to hurt the good will of those going beyond their obligations to offer it to you. Colin feels like a spoiled child. What Jason is giving him must be the opportunity thousands of other people dream of. People who worked really hard for it. Colin knows that W.E. is a golden ticket to fair and solid employment. Even the most trivial job there is far more long-term stability than he could imagine—and St Aden’s is a rock. But what would Bruce Wayne even see in him that somebody else couldn’t do better?

“I can’t do  _anything_ , Jason,” he stresses. “I’m… I’m still in freshman year for a reason, you know?”

“What I know is that you’re not an idiot,” Jason retorts. “Look at what you’ve managed to do so far without getting caught or sent to the hospital—well, until today, of course. Plus, I see you at the library most days. You read a lot. Must have a bunch of stuffs stored in that head of yours. Sister Agnes also told me that you simply take on too much responsibilities, and _that_ ’s why you’re behind at school. Which grades did you retake?”

Colin doesn’t know what to think about the way things are going down right now. Why would Jason want to know that? How far is this helping gig planned? He hesitates a bit, but ultimately answers:

“Second one, when I moved to St Aden’s. I changed schools three times before that and I adapted terribly for a while. Then I just… I was an average student, but I barely went to school last year.”

Jason squints. “Why?”

“I wasn’t in a good place.” Not that he’s in a better one now, if he thinks about it. “I did other things and demonstrated enough activity, so the nuns avoided trouble. The school welcomed me back—out of pity, I guess. The headmaster always tells me to put in a good word for him during Mass.”

Talking to Jason is neither easy nor hard. Colin knows that if he doesn’t do it now, he will have to do it eventually, and he learned long ago that waiting is pointless. He is scared, nervous,  _hungry_. Perhaps food is not the only thing his body is craving right now. Jason notices his discomfort.

“Let’s get you home, Annie-boy. Sister Agnes will worry even more if we arrive after supper.”

“No more questions?”

“No.” Jason grins, tender and quiet, strokes the teen’s right arm in a gentle motion. “But it doesn’t mean that you can’t talk to me about it anytime, alright? I’ll listen. Anything you need or wish to discuss, or if you’re having a bad night, then please  _never_  hesitate to call or text me. Can you please enter your number in my contact list?”

The teen nods, takes the phone offered to him, types his number in it. He quickly realizes the problem behind it; so does Jason.

“Did you also give it to some of these men? We’re getting you a new one. A new number and a new phone.”

Colin just nods.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read, subscribed to, bookmarked, gave kudos to, and commented on this story so far. It made me really happy. I hope this chapter will meet your expectations! =)

What kind of socks does one wear to a meeting with Bruce Wayne? Colin has been sitting in front of his drawer for the past forty-one minutes, thinking about it over and over again.

‘ _Wear whatever_ ’, Jason said. He meant it, of course; that makes everything worse. The redhead owns but  _one_  good outfit, and the last time he had to put it on was already over a year ago, so he is not sure it could fit him anymore. He could take Jason’s advice and wear a plain black, long sleeve t-shirt, and this one pair of jeans that looks almost new. His beige, knockoff Converse shoes are the only ones that do not look like rags. His cast and bruises will help conceal the roundness of his face, the million freckles on his skin, his disorderly hair he never seems able to fix. But would it truly be enough?

Colin takes a deep breath. He can do this— _Jason_  said he can. Jason is honest and not afraid to sound harsh. He has stayed true to his words so far, bringing Colin back to the hospital two days ago for blood and eye tests (he needs reading glasses), dealing with the nuns so that the boy had little to explain to Sister Agnes in the end, and even getting him a brand-new phone and subscription. Colin still wonders if any of this is real. Perhaps the fall actually killed him, or almost, and he is now in a coffin or a coma, dreaming of all the incredible things that could have happened to him in later years, in another life. The kindest soul in Gotham found him, was treating him like his protégé. He remained in mostly one piece after a vicious assault. He  _met Damian Wayne_.

Colin sighs, shakes his head.  _He can do this_. Closing his eyes, he blindly grabs a pair of socks—dark blue, somewhat new—and groans when the next issue crosses his mind.

What kind of  _boxer briefs_ does one wear to a meeting with Bruce Wayne?

 

He is ready to leave about half an hour later. Toddlers too young to attend school are running everywhere in the hallway, under the scrutiny of Sister Gail. Colin has to slalom his way through their weird game of hopscotch to access the stairway leading to the lobby. Sister Agnes is waiting for him down the steps, nearby the entrance door. She is not smiling, but her gaze is kind when she waves her left hand, asking Colin to come closer. He complies, worried and a bit scared. He hopes that the nun’s expectations about the meeting are low, realistic, for he is not sure betraying her trust yet another time would be easy to forgive. No amount of prayers would make him hate himself less.

“Good morning, Sister Agnes.”

“You skipped breakfast, Colin,” she states, scowling. “Today is an important day, you should have at least tried to eat something.”

“It’s not  _that_  important…”

She has to hold her head high for their eyes to be at the same level nowadays. Colin is not used to it yet. On his first day at St Aden’s, he was so small that all he could see of the nun was her long black robe, the heavy cross hanging on her chest, her hands marred by hardship and seasons. He can see her face more closely now. Her benevolence, her determination, the way she frowns in disapprobation for what Colin just said. It tells stories. It looks like home.

“Perhaps I could sneak into the kitchen to make myself a snack to go?”

“It is soon noon, so lunch is on its way. I’ve already asked Sister Emily to pack you some food.” As Colin whispers a ‘ _thank you_ ’, Sister Agnes pats his good arm, staring at the other one. “Make the best of your blessings, Colin. A place at Wayne Enterprises could open the right doors for you.”

“I know,” he replies, looking down. “I… I will  _try_ , alright?”

“Easy, son,” she smiles, covering Colin’s cheeks with her hands. “Please don’t be so nervous. The fact that you received the help of one of the very few people in this city who could offer you such an opportunity is proof enough that God is sending you a  _choice_ , and I don’t believe that He would take it back on a whim, even more so now that you have decided to welcome His tidings. If you do not get to work there, then it does not matter. You took a step toward the good. That is all we could have asked for.”

Colin exhales slowly, and it’s a bit of relief, a lot of gratitude. He raises his right hand to graze the nun’s fingers on his cheek, his touch gentle.

“Alright,” he whispers.

Sister Agnes nods, laces their arms together, and begins to guide the teen in the direction of the kitchen.

“I would have asked Connie to drive you to the interview,” she explains, “but I thought you might want to take some alone time outside to reflect on your luck and to consider another suggestion Jason Todd brought to me yesterday.”

“Well, aren’t you two becoming the best of friends…,” Colin teases.

“Indeed we are,” she agrees, ignoring the teen’s tone. “He said that he understands your troubles at school, and that if you are still interested in completing your education—which you  _are_ —then he could tutor you for the GED exam.”

Colin stops their progression to give Sister Agnes a pleading look. He wants to scream, perhaps; to cry, maybe. Everything Jason has done so far has tested the limits of Colin’s tolerance to charity applied to himself. His anxiety level is too damn high.

The nun can see his discomfort. She brushes over his arm again, smiles in sympathy, and encourages him to carry on with their walk.

“You can discuss it with him,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I would like to see you graduate, you know. We never had anyone above middle school age here. There is place on the walls of my office for more pictures.”

“Can we please talk about it later?” Colin’s voice shakes a little. Now is not the best moment to fuel his stress.

“Of course. You will do just fine today, boy. Please don’t doubt yourself this much. We know what you’re made of.” ( _You don’t_.) “We have faith in your strengths.” ( _You shouldn’t_.)

They make it to the kitchen without another word. Colin accepts the sandwich and chocolate bars Sister Emily is shoving into his hand, puts it into his messenger bag, thanks both women for their services, and leaves.

 

Three train stations and two streets later, panic freezes his steps.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters. “I can’t do this.” He reaches for the back pocket of his jeans, grabs his phone, scrolls down until Jason’s number appears, presses it. “I can’t do this,” Colin repeats right when the man picks up the call.

“Of course you can,” Jason answers. He sounds calm, although a tad worried. Colin can hear people speaking in the background, some metallic noises, a few beeps in the distance. “Need a pep talk, ginger?”

“What will I even tell them? Jason, I can’t stand straight, I’m shaking, I’ve never done anything like that, and what if they… You know?”

“Yeah, well, pardon my honesty, but your sense of danger is completely backward.” Jason sighs, and there is edge in his pitch. “Colin, Bruce is  _safe_ , alright? He won’t berate you, won’t expect more than what reality has to offer, and absolutely won’t ask you anything inappropriate. Please believe me.”

‘ _I don’t_ ’, Colin wants to retort, but he holds his breath instead. Jason trusts Bruce Wayne. Colin trusts Jason—technically.  _Maybe_. That doesn’t change the fact that the kid cannot accept the idea that power could make people good. He has met his fair share of wealthy men in the nearby alleys, at night. They are no saints. They talk sweeter and present better than the others, yes, but at the end of the day, they always want something from those below, and it starts by bruised knees and ends with cheap thrills when Colin gasps from the pressure of their hands around his neck.

“The only thing Bruce  _wants_  today,” Jason goes on, as if he can read the teen’s mind, “is to honour the promise he made me to look at your case, so he will be able to determine the best way to help you for the time being. Nothing more. He already knows your family and education history, and has an idea of what you do—or  _did_ —for money. He is no fool, but he is no bad soul either. He only has your best interests in mind.”

“Why would he do this for me? Or for  _you_?” Colin tries his hardest to ignore the odd glances people are sending his way. He walks a bit slower to steady himself, keeping his expression neutral.

“For you because of me, for me because we’re  _family_. Of sorts.” A short pause, before Jason adds: “No funny business.”

“Right. I know that. The last part.”

“Good. Don’t be late for the meeting, alright? Bruce and Tim are busy people.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there early. My arm is so painful, I didn’t want to be groggy so I skipped some pain medication…” That’s only half of the truth; Colin also wants his current supply to last long enough to avoid another trip to the hospital. Jason somehow hears these unspoken words.

“Take your painkillers, kid, else you won't be able to function. Leslie told me that you’ll need more anyway, so it’s already planned and paid for.”

“Jason…”

“Yeah, I know. I also wanted to kill Bruce every time he did something like that for me, back in the day.” Jason’s fondness is evident. Colin’s heart beats a little faster each time. Envy, starvation. “It will pass. There are things you cannot help, Colin. I mean, sure, you could get a restraining order against me, but really, a simple ‘ _get out of my life_ ’ would suffice, if that’s what you want. I ain’t no stalker, and I won’t force you to do anything you disagree with. You don’t owe me or Bruce anything either. But if you’re hell-bent on paying us back, or at least me, then please get your ass to W.E. and don’t look at my family as potential criminals. They won’t hurt you—honest to God. You could even decline a handshake and they wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“That would be rude,” Colin mumbles, stepping into a smaller street to avoid the flux of people on lunch break on the main one. “You should see what I’m wearing, I think that doesn’t even meet W.E. standards to enter the building…”

“Oh, I highly doubt that. I’ll let you in on some secrets, alright? Tim shows up to meetings in some atrocious pyjamas every time the invited collaborator is not on his friend list, and Dick has the worst fashion sense ever. I mean, crushed velvet purple dungarees? I took pictures, and my phone became uncooperative for days, right after that. It’s no coincidence. Tim works there, at the top of the chain, and Dick stops by almost every day. People  _see_  them. They are the company’s future, or whatever. Two of Bruce’s assistants also hold some kind of cosplay contest between themselves and whoever wants in, once or twice a month. The bottom-floor receptionist once dressed as Doraemon for a  _week_. What are you wearing? Jeans? A decent top? What about your shoes?”

“Plain. Beige.”

“See? It’s fine. The Waynes don’t discriminate based on style, let alone when it comes to wards of the state.”

Colin’s chest feels a bit lighter. It’s not perfect, but it will do.

“Even so,” he murmurs. “I look like a middle schooler.”

“You look like an  _actual_  high school freshman, and that’s okay. W.E. welcomes people from various middle and high schools from time to time—geniuses, focus groups, employees’ kids during snow days… It’s not that uncommon. Don’t worry about it.”

Colin is getting closer to W.E.’s headquarters. Four blocks, and that will be it. Jason and the teen remain silent for a minute.

“I’m picking up groceries for Kate,” the librarian declares at last. “You know, my supervisor?”

“I remember. She caught the flu from Bruce Wayne, yeah?”

“She did. They often have these little quarrels. They’re cousins.”

“So you truly  _are_  a part of this family.”

It takes a few seconds for Jason to answer a soft: “I am”. Colin gets the hint and drops the subject.

“Eh, about this GED thing…”

“You don’t have to accept,” Jason replies. “It’s an option to consider, nothing more. I understand that it’s hard for people like you—like  _us_ —to fit in with the whole school thing sometimes, what with anxiety, odd jobs and whatnot. A standard rhythm makes it too difficult. I graduated high school shortly before turning twenty, and that was only because Bruce and Dick encouraged me to do it. They even convinced me to attend Gotham Academy in senior year, helped me get one of the school’s scholarships and everything. I was older than everybody else, but it was worth it. Got me to college with less struggles than I had prepared myself for. Tim and Damian were there, too, so it was fun.”

“I’m not even sure I wanna go to college.”

“I’d encourage you to, but you do not  _have_  to. Still, don’t you think that it’s better to have the  _choice_  not to? I just thought that you’d be more comfortable with doing things a bit differently, taking the time to help the nuns with the kids, work on your stress and sense of self-worth first…”

“Perhaps.”  _Yes_. “But I can’t abuse your kindness like that.”

Jason chuckles. “You wouldn’t be, trust me. In fact, tutoring you would give me extra credits, and I’m a bit behind on elective studies, so  _you_  would be helping me.”

Colin cannot tell whether the man lies or not when he gives logical answers to his doubts. It almost sounds thought through well in advance. To believe the guy is easier than fighting everything, however something in the back of the teen’s mind frequently murmurs ‘ _too nice, wants you in eternal debt_ ’. He wishes he could make this bitterness disappear. There are things Jason is still quite secretive about, but after all, they just met. Colin himself doesn’t tell Jason about his wounds, either.

Perhaps the only thing that matters for now is that every time Jason is around, Colin feels somewhat _safe_. He hopes it will stay; he knows good stuff seldom last. He is scared to develop a dependency to  _care_.

The line sounds messy for a second. “I’m only half-sorry that I cannot attend the meeting with you,” Jason confesses. “Part of me panics at the idea of leaving you alone in the mean world of business, but I also believe that it is time for you to learn how to spot and highlight your qualities and what you have to offer. As limited as your experience or skills are, if you apply yourself, you’ll find a way to sell it. Just be honest and push the positive side of things above the rest.”

“Alright,” Colin grumbles, “I am now convinced that you  _do_  wanna get in my pants.”

“Not until you turn twenty-one.” Colin can picture Jason’s smirk with ease. The noises surrounding the man are getting louder by the second. “Okay, I’m done shopping now. I’ll leave you to the interview.”

“Yeah, it’s… Thanks, Jason. For the pep talk, for… the meeting, and the hospital, and…”

“I get it, Colin. Don’t mention it. Give it forward, alright? You know the drill.”

“I do. Thank you. I’ll text you after the meeting, although I suppose Tim Drake-Wayne will do it too.”

“And isn’t that great? Both sides of the story. Perfect. Have fun in there, ginger.”

Jason ends the call. Looking up, Colin can see Wayne Enterprises main building, only a few streets away from where he is standing. He checks the time on his phone; not quite twelve twenty yet. He has not eaten anything since he woke up, however his stomach does not seem able to ingest anything right now. He needs to walk, to sit down, to collect his thoughts before appearing in front of the Waynes. He  _can do this_. He has to believe he can.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why is your bedroom TV in black and white? And is that a  _VCR_?”

“And good afternoon to you too, demonic creature.”

Jason grins, opening his arms wide when he climbs on the bed to pull Kate into a hug. She is a bit flushed, her body abnormally warm. Jason winces in sympathy.

“Seems like a bad one this time.”

“It is,” she grumbles. “Your father cursed me.”

It sounds so natural, so true when she says it. Jason feels home with her just as much as he knows Dick, Tim and Damian are the best parts of the man he is.

“Lucky for you, aunt Kate, I heard your cries and brought back a ton of junk food to help you last until your love comes back from boot camp. Cass is putting it in your cupboards and fridge as we speak. I brought some stuff up here, though. Cookies?”

“How sweet your temptations, Jason. I’ll take one, please and thank you.”

She moves to the side of the bed, pats the middle of it as an invitation for Jason to sit by her side. He does. He opens the cookie pack and presents it to Kate, who takes two.

“Will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry, kiddo. If Bruce survived it, then so will I. Can’t leave Cass without one of her moms, right?”

“Right.”

Said young woman enters the room with a tray and three glasses of ice tea. Kate beams at her.

“You’re the best, my raven. Thank you for taking care of me. You too, Jay, thank you for the junk food and the gossips you’ll be filling this house with.”

Jason laughs. “Yeah, I brought you a few.”

He smiles wide at Cass, who replicates the gesture before she indicates with a swift sign that she will be right back. When she disappears, Jason admits:

“You were right about Bruce passing on bad habits to me.”

“Why? Did you wish the plague on someone?”

“No,” he snorts. “Or actually yes, once. Dick was being impossible and had been postponing sleep for days, so I kinda hoped that he’d fall sick and would be forced to rest. He never caught anything, of course. Freakishly good immune system of his.”

“Bless him,” Kate chuckles. “Did you take in a stray?”

“I did. Sort of.”

“Is it that St Aden’s kid who took a disputable shortcut from the top to the bottom of our stairs?”

“That would be the one.”

“Good. Please tell me it’s the redhead? The boy who hangs out in the Latin department?”

“They have two boys with red hair, but yes, that sounds like Colin alright.”

“He seems nice.”

“He is. I got him an interview with Bruce today. I hope they’ll get along.”

Kate grabs a glass, drinks the tea in one setting. Jason can read the sadness on her face.

“So you still call him ‘ _Bruce_ ’,” she whispers.

Jason holds his breath. He thought that Kate’s current state could save him from this argument today. Guess it was too much to ask.

“I do.”

“In front of him, too?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time.”

She puts the pack of cookies on her nightstand, lays back down on the multiple pillows gathered on her side of the bed, and gives the man a pointed look.

“It's been years, Jason. Why are we still stuck at this point?”

He has no answer to that, or perhaps he has too many, miles and hills of barriers that he built on his own and is not able to overthrow anymore. He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Kate. It’s a process, is all. Bruce and I are not there yet.”

“You know that it extends beyond the two of you.”

“Yes. I don’t forget any of you. I talked to Dick about it last summer.”

“And?”

“And  _nothing_. It’s too difficult for me, and Bruce… I think he let it go. He stopped asking.”

“Because he wants you to come to him.”

“And I can’t do that just yet. Perhaps  _ever_. Can we please drop it now?”

“Eh, please be nice to me. My head hurts.” She frowns. Jason smiles in defeat, kisses the woman’s forehead. “Oh, come on, Jay” she groans. “Trust me, you don’t want to catch this stuff.”

“It’s too late anyway.”

“Then please stay.” She adds, her voice softer: “You know, Renee and I could still adopt you. We talked about it before. We love you—you know that, right?”

“I do, and I love the both of you, too, and Cassandra, and everything we’ve shared so far. But you are not… you know. Bruce is my  _parent_. It would not be right.”

Kate acquiesces, resigned. The TV in the background is spewing small screeching noises, stuck on the empty screen of the VCR channel. Jason finds it oddly soothing.

“He’d do anything for you,” Kate tells him. “Blame these bad germs, but hear me out: if you make my cousin’s life miserable, I’ll despise you so much that I’ll call you only twice a week instead of our regular five times. You got that?”

“Yes ma’am.” He thinks about what he could say to make her feel better. He picks the truth. “My life has been set in fast motion, lately. Maybe I’ll reconsider the situation this year. With Bruce, that is; no way I’d let you adopt me. Working with my  _mother_? I’m no special agent.”

“Fair enough, but how awesome would it be if we actually were spies?”

“Pretty awesome. Cass would be the best.”

A shadow dims the light of Kate’s smile. Jason knows he is responsible of it, at least in part. He got used to this perpetual pinch of guilt a while ago already. It still hurts, still feels like he’s a lost child, still tells him that the next time Bruce asks him to become his son by throwing papers at him, he has no concrete ground to deny himself something he desires so bad. Although he refuses to lie to Kate, he can still give her hope and accept compromises.

“I swear to you that I will discuss it with Dick and Tim this month or the next. Perhaps not with Damian—not for the time being—but I will give the whole idea another shot.”

“Good. That’s all I ask. Thank you, Jaybird.”

The man smiles softly. Cassandra comes back inside the room, carrying more cookies and a pile of old VHS. She wordlessly slides one of the tapes in the VCR before she gets on the bed, squeezing Jason between Kate and her, using his chest as a pillow, extending her arm over his waist so she can grip her mother’s hand. They stay here all afternoon, watching Lindsay-Hogg’s  _The Little Match Girl_  in black and white, joking about the crappy quality of the picture, leaving cookie crumbs everywhere.

 

* * *

 

It’s eight to one when an enthusiastic intern leads Colin inside a lift. His electronic badge reads  _Duke Thomas_ , and his motivation is contagious enough for the teen to regain hope simply by standing close to him. It is no short of a good luck charm.

“It’s my tenth day here,” Duke explains, beaming. “My first meeting was with recruiters at Gotham U, which was stressful already, but the last one was with Mr Wayne himself, and man, that was both the scariest and most inspiring moment of my life. Nice guy, truly committed. Takes no BS, though, so I hope you’re coming prepared.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure.” The numbers get higher on the digital display above the door. Perhaps it’s in his head, but Colin’s arm aches more than usual.

“What do you do, by the way?” Duke asks. “You look quite young.”

Colin bites his tongue, glances back and forth between the numbers and the young man. All of a sudden, he feels uneasy. The guilt of taking someone else’s place hits him hard once again. Duke mentioned recruiters, Gotham U, looks in his early twenties. He probably worked his ass off for years in order to get here, and what did Colin do? He broke his arm in front of the only man in Gotham who can instantly read through his lies with terrifying clarity, and who has the network to pull the best strings of power in this city to act in Colin’s favour—in  _four days_  flat. ‘Robbery’ does not even begin to define what it sounds like.

Colin wants to press the button that’d send him back to the lobby, run away from the building, perhaps even from Gotham. After all, Jason said that the teen owed him nothing, right? Now would be a good time to sabotage whatever is going on here.

But it’s a second too late. The lift stops its ascension when they reach the twenty-eighth floor. Colin snaps back to reality as Duke softly clears his throat.

“Well,” he smiles. “That’s your stop. Go get ‘em! They’re at the end of the hallway. You can knock—we rang them. They’re expecting you.”

“Alright. Thank you. It was nice meeting you.”

“Same.” Duke grins, salutes the teen before he presses a button to a lower floor. After he disappears behind the metal doors, Colin takes a deep,  _deep_  breath, holds it for a few seconds, exhales as slowly as he can.

He reminds himself that he promised Jason to go through with the meeting, to at least attempt to get out of the wrongful circle he entered and settled in. His recent track record has been far from honest, and perhaps he is beyond redemption by now, but Sister Agnes is counting on him, too. He cannot let either of them down. With shaky legs, he walks toward the designated door, knocks on it three times, and waits.

 

Tim Drake-Wayne is barely a couple inches taller than Colin, his face still a bit round and his hair combed in haste; but his poise is impressive. No amount of work might ever help one attain something close to what appears so natural to the young CEO. His black pants, plain black shoes and woolen green jumper add to his refined, yet approachable vibe. Colin is intimidated and convinced that his efforts to hide it are not enough.

Thankfully, Tim is prompt to put on a friendly smile. He greets Colin in a quiet voice, his timbre deeper than what the teen imagined.

“Well, hello there! You must be Colin.”

 _You must be disappointed_.

“Hi. Yes, hello. It’s really nice to meet you, mister Drake-Wayne.”

“Ouch,” the man winces. “I knew that turning twenty was a terrible idea.”

Colin feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment. “No, it’s… It's not... I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Tim holds his hands up.

“No, it’s alright—it’s me. It was a joke, but I’m not a born comedian. Besides, Dick told me that if I let you start the apology train, this meeting will be over  _next_   _week_.”

“I… yes,” Colin agrees, sheepish. “That’s unfortunately true.”

Tim seems to find it amusing, although his expression is more compassionate than contemptuous.

“Well, please do come in?”

Colin nods, crosses the threshold to find himself in a spacious room. A massive wooden desk stands on his left, on which a closed laptop, piles of papers, and a few pens stand. Large windows are covering the entirety of the wall in front of him, bathing the place in the warm afternoon light. There are several bookshelves and a smaller desk on the teen’s right, next to two men turning to face Colin when he takes another step inside.

And—oh,  _no_.

Must Damian Wayne be present every time Colin makes a fool of himself? Is it part of the deal? Does suffering regular humiliation from the judging eyes of the young heir enter God’s plans to teach Colin a lesson about dignity, obedience and righteous paths?

The redhead almost doesn’t find it in him not to fall on the floor as a sign of defeat. Instead, in a split second, his body acts on instinct; the teen swallows the lump in his throat and fakes a shy grin.

“Hi. My name’s Colin Wilkes. Thank you very much for seeing me today.”

Bruce Wayne is tall, his body wide, dressed in a black suit. His cold blue eyes are darker from where he stands. He, too, is intimidating, but there is a lot of Jason’s smile in the one he offers Colin. The uneasiness in the kid’s chest partially lifts at the sight. Bruce takes a few steps closer and stops roughly four feet away from the door. His body language is measured, unthreatening.  _Knowing_.

“Good afternoon, Colin. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Having the man almost right in front of him makes the redhead reconsider the small amount of relief he just felt. Everything about Bruce Wayne screams ‘ _power_ ’—of many kinds—and Colin has to remember the loving words Jason spoke about the billionaire to keep his anxiety mute. ‘ _Bruce is safe. He saved me._ ’ Was it even the truth? Could Jason be a  _bait_? If anything, to Colin’s both horror and relief, Damian is here.

He is standing, quiet and straight, in the corner of the room. Although his gaze is not as hostile as it was in the car, Colin could swear that the other teen is trying to strip his soul, scratching his defenses in an attempt to break something in him. He ultimately elects to push that thought aside. To his surprise, Damian addresses him in a rather polite tone.

“Hello. I’m Damian. We met.”

And it’s so little, and it’s so much. Colin cannot form any intelligent reply to that, so he smiles a bit wider instead, remembers to nod to keep the exchange going somehow. Tim moves away from him to gets closer to Bruce.

“Damian does not  _have_  to stay,” the billionaire trails off.

Colin realises that the man is in fact saying: ‘ _if you want him to go, just say it, and he will_ ’. It is not a choice he expected to have. On the small desk, in front of Damian, are a notebook, an open watercolour case, two water brushes, and a few nib holding pens in a drinking glass. The young heir’s outfit is exclusively black today, but the white jacket he was wearing when they first met is hanging on the back of a chair pushed under the desk. The left cuff is covered in several tiny patches of paint. When Damian locks eyes with him, Colin makes up his mind.

“No, it’s… You can stay. I don’t mind.”

He minds. He doesn’t want Damian to find out how much of a failure he can be, or, worse, to catch clues about his unlawful activities. Coming to think of it, Colin doesn’t even know whether Tim is aware of these himself. Jason only mentioned Bruce. What if it becomes their main focus at some point? Would they really discuss such things here and now? Colin has no will nor words to explain his actions to the Waynes. Bruce notices the boy has started to drift away.

“That’s nice of you,” he says. “Should we start now? Please, grab a seat.”

Colin gives him a sly smile, glances at Damian (who is sitting back on the chair), and follows the two older men toward Bruce’s desk. His nerves are burning. Bruce and Tim take their respective places in front of him, Tim on Bruce’s right. Colin hopes to make it through this meeting before an attack comes knocking on his door.

“Jason texted me earlier,” Tim begins, his lips curved in a small smirk. “Apparently, we are not allowed to make you cry or feel bad about yourself.”

“Oh, uh, well…,” Colin stammers as a blush spreads on his chest and face. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Now,” Bruce sighs, but there is amusement and affection under the annoyance it translates, “it was not in our plans in the first place anyway. Please tell us if we get out of line, Colin.”

Colin nods, or shakes his head—he cannot tell. He feels Damian’s stare on his back and hopes it’s only his imagination.

“Right,” Bruce says. “First thing first: how bad do you need a job, and would one here do?”

Well, that was a bit direct. At least it forces Colin to get into the mood straightaway.

“Quite bad, and yes.”

“Good. I know you’re… a  _bit_  behind on school. Jason told me you did not attend last year. What did you do instead?”

“I, mh… Helped run St Aden’s, mostly. Kept the kids. Organised events.”

“What kind of events?” Tim asks.

“Visits from and assistance to prospective parents, the kids’ annual talent and art shows, a few christenings…”

Colin is aware that these things might not be worth much for businessmen the likes of Bruce and Tim, but that’s almost everything he has on his side. Almost.

“I learned Latin.”

“Did you?” Tim sounds genuinely interested. It doesn’t help Colin’s apprehensions.

“Yes. Father Simon is old, and his Parkinson’s is progressing. His speech is not as good as it used to be, and it exhausts him to read and speak, so Sister Agnes—my legal guardian—suggested that I help him with these things. I did. It was inconvenient for me to read and speak for him without understanding the language. It was all phonetics and remembering things wrong, back then, so I took courses and… Well. That’s about it.”

“How good are you at writing or speaking it?” Bruce asks, crossing his arms.

“I… I don’t really know. I write my diary in Latin sometimes, but I can’t tell you much about my conversational skills. I did not keep contact with my former teacher since we stopped the lessons, so I don’t have anyone to speak it with regularly.”

Tim opens his mouth to say something. Damian is faster.

“Can you teach?”

Colin tenses at the sound, feels panic rising in his chest. It must show, because both Tim and Bruce look at him with concern. The redhead regains composure. He does not turn around to speak to Damian directly, focusing on Bruce instead, keeping his voice steady.

“I teach Latin to kids at St Aden’s, yes. It’s nothing serious, but some of them are getting somewhere with it, so it’s kind of nice.”

Tim beams at him, perhaps because he’s polite, perhaps because he’s nice like that. Bruce unfolds his arms, leans in to tell something. However, once again, Damian’s voice chimes in.

“I meant, can you teach  _me_?”

 

* * *

 

 

There are two things Bruce can tell about Colin Wilkes without a single trace of doubt. One: the kid is hardworking, although grossly misguided in his efforts. And two: he is currently struggling to keep his nerves in check, yet manages not to give in to panic, all while allowing himself some passes regarding etiquette so that he’d get through the meeting without breaking down. After years of taking in too much responsibilities on his shoulders when he was younger, Bruce can only commend such self-defence mechanisms.

There are also two things the man knows about  _Damian_. One: this troubled son accumulates bits of every destructive sides his older brothers ever demonstrated, making the house tremble day and night in fear of a meltdown; and two: he  _never_  voluntarily offers to hang out with outsiders.

 

When the conductor of Gotham Academy’s youth orchestra asked Damian to keep playing for them despite his early graduation, the boy accepted the request only because the orchestra serves as a fundraising organisation for various local charities. Dick was the one who reminded him of that fact, and Damian would do anything to please his eldest brother. That is about as much social interaction as the boy gets, twice a month. That is sometimes the  _only_  place he goes to instead of staying locked in the Manor. He is regularly invited to countless events he almost never attends, visits friends' houses every two months at best, and escapes receptions given at Wayne Manor every occasion he gets. Bruce finds it sad and worrisome. He has stopped counting the number of nights he spent awake thinking about this, trying to find a way to answer this silent call for help, crafting plans and solutions that always ended up in the trash.

And that is why he simply cannot believe what he just heard. Colin turns around this time. Damian’s eyes are set on the redhead. He is still holding a water brush, a drop of paint dripping from it to the notebook. Tim looks at his father with confusion, apprehension, and what could be interest written all over his face. Bruce does not know what to say; Colin does.

“ _No_. I’m sorry, no, I’d be… Couldn’t you get a better teacher? Someone who does this for a living?”

“But if you become my teacher, then  _you_  would be doing this for a living as well,” Damian points out. He seems calm despite his thick tone, leaning back on his chair, shifting his legs on the side. “I could do with another language. Publishers have been releasing fascinating titles in Latin, as of late. It would be a waste of my available time not to make an effort to understand the hard work people are putting into the preservation of this heritage.”

Damian is not lying; Bruce can tell when he does. Internal screaming matches happen with each lie, when the line between being a reliable father and a rational human being gets blurred enough that Bruce has to resort to the help of his other children, Alfred, or—and he hates when it comes to this—Julie or Clark to calm him down so he can rethink the situation with reason. In general, Damian admits to his faults. Bruce learned to let harmless stories pass. The problem is that these are getting rarer by the day. His son has now reached a time, an  _inconvenient truth_  in his life, for which he’d need assistance the most and asks for it the least.

“Also,” Damian carries on when his words do not get any outward reaction, “a qualified teacher would only put expectations on both my progression and the value of having the Wayne name associated with their career. I do not respond well to such teaching methods.”

Tim snorts. Bruce puts his hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezing it gently in a plea for peace, putting on a soft smile at the good nature of his boys’ regular nagging. It took them years to get there. He assumes that Damian is done talking for now; he’s unfortunately wrong.

“I would do  _much_  better than the kids at St Aden’s. It would be rewarding for you, and you could use some recognized references. It would make up for the time you did not spend attending school—as you  _should_  have.”

Colin does not reply to that, but the shivers running through his body tell just as much. He sits back in a normal position on his chair, brings his right hand over his cast. He appears to be in some sort of pain, either physical, either moral, or both, as he ponders Damian’s words. His struggle is sad to watch, and Bruce’s heart aches for the boy.

“Damian,  _no_. Do you remember what Jason asked us not to do?”

His son frowns, nods, actually looking guilty within seconds. ‘ _Good_ ,’ Bruce thinks. Damian does not always understand when his words are hurting people.

“I’m sorry, father,” he murmurs. “I apologise. To you too, Colin,” he adds louder when Tim gives him a swift sign of the head in the redhead’s direction.

Bruce could praise him on the spot. Small steps, one at a time. It is not like Damian misbehaves or wrecks on purpose; he is however too caught up in his own issues to care about other people’s feelings. That is not  _right_ , of course, nor an acceptable conduct by far. Bruce tries restlessly to teach compassion to the boy, with the devout help of his three other sons and Alfred to oversee their efforts, but it is not always enough when Damian’s anger gets in the way. He is difficult, yes. But he has a good heart.

Bruce feels as guilty as Damian looks, now that it hits him that he has not yet verbally recognised Damian’s offer as the kind gesture it was. The teen could choose to buy a book to learn Latin on his own, and that’d be it. Bruce knows his son well enough to measure the size of his proposal. Nevertheless, the idea that Damian would willingly spend some one-on-one time with someone—even more so, a  _boy_ —his age in the name of a spontaneous good deed is a bit hard to swallow.

“Should we move on?” Tim asks, evidently hoping to ease the tension. “Perhaps Colin could help out at the employees’ nursery if we sponsor a formation for him, or something?”

Damian goes back to his painting, resigned. Colin keeps his eyes on the desk, his hand still brushing over his cast. Is it itching? When did he last take his pain medication? Jason and Leslie said they took care of it, but that he might be a bit short by the end of his treatment. What if Colin, like Jason once, twice, on  _many_  occasions, thought it was okay to postpone some pills to make his reserve last longer? Does he need water? Has he eaten anything today? Allowing Damian to stay proved to be a bad idea, and Bruce now regrets his decision to give Colin a choice on the matter. His concerns about the redhead are starting to pile up dangerously fast, like pearls rolling away from a broken necklace.

Suddenly, Colin frowns and raises his head. He pushes his chair back before he twists his body so that Damian is in his line of sight. His voice is dry, the quiver in it slight.

“Why don’t you buy a book?”

Damian looks up, his green eyes wide open. He is both surprised and annoyed.

“Pardon?”

“A  _book_.”

Even from his angle, Bruce can see Colin suck in and hold a short breath. He has seen Jason, Tim and Kate do it enough times to know that they just missed a snarky remark.

“You’re book smart,” Colin goes on. “Papers love to talk about it, how you graduated early, how you could go anywhere to college if you bothered to apply. I’m fairly sure that it means that you could learn any language on your own, couldn’t you? You could buy one of those books they now translate in Latin, compare it with an English copy, and learn the language just like that. Or with a method—I had one when I started, and if I got somewhere with it, then so should you. Why would you need  _me_?”

Damian’s eyes are traveling from Colin to Bruce, repeatedly. The billionaire could swear the boy has about four demeaning answers to what Colin told him. He gives his son a nod to encourage him to speak  _part_  of his mind, holding his left hand up in a motion that instantly speaks to his sons— ‘ _be nice_ ’.

“I do not need a teacher,” Damian replies.

“Then I suppose we agree that I am not needed on your linguistic journey.”

“You’re definitely  _not_.”

Bruce scowls, glares at Damian, and raises his hand again. Tim mimics the gesture, his breathing very quiet.

“I mean,” the teen mutters, “You’re not, it’s true, I could study by myself. But a book would not be as entertaining.”

Colin sits very still for a few seconds, then turns back to face the two men behind the desk again, straightens his spine, and clears his throat.  _Entertaining_ —now that was unfortunate. There is enough distress in the redhead’s expression to make Bruce wonder whether the boy can make it back home safe and sound. Right now, though, he is too irate to think about what will happen once this mess will be over. The echoes dancing in his head are deafening.

‘ _Why would you need me to become your kept boy?_ ’

‘ _Guess you rich folks can’t always get everything, ‘cause I don’t plan on keeping this going on._ ’

‘ _I want to thank you for entering my life. You know, East Gotham is kinda great. I miss you guys terribly._ ’

‘ _You’ve already got Dick, Tim, and even Damian now. Why would you ever want me?_ ’

‘ _You can’t adopt me. Please don’t._ ’

‘ _I shouldn’t call you ‘dad’. I want to. I can’t._ ’

“Enough.”

The three younger men collectively flinch at Bruce’s low, aggressive tone. And — _well_. Way to go  _not_  scaring the kid Jason asked them to help. The billionaire struggles to keep his cool.

“Damian,” he scolds. “Apologise, then get out.”

“No, please,” Colin murmurs as his eyes meet Bruce’s. “It’s alright.”

“It really isn’t.”

The boy bows his head down. He is both frightened and upset. Open conflicts do not seem to enter the extent of what he was prepared for today. Too many glimpses of the kid Jason once was are crawling from the back Bruce’s mind, even though he is able to separate their situations in an instant. At the end of the day, the same issues and compromises can make even the nicest thought turn sour.

On the other side of the room, Damian is gathering his drawing supplies. Tim tilts his head toward Bruce in a way that is so  _Alfred_ , that spells out ‘ _there must be something we can do to make things right_ ’. After years of playing house and later starting his journey to proper parenthood, Bruce is somewhat proud when he realises that there is, indeed, one resolution method he can think of. After all, it is not like Damian is aware of what Colin sometimes does to get money. Bruce intends to keep it for himself as long as possible, and for that, he must nuance his reaction.

“Tim,” he says, “Could you please go visit the marketing department for me? I have to review their new campaigns in less than five minutes, but I won’t be able to do so.”

Tim smiles, relieved and grateful, gets up as he replies: “Roger that.”

“Damian,” Bruce calls, “please take Tim’s seat.”

Both teenagers are visibly confused. Tim waves at Colin, whispers a quick ‘ _don’t worry_ ’. The two exchange parting pleasantries until the CEO is out of the room. Damian moves to take the empty seat. His guilt and discomfort are apparent. Across the desk, Colin has perceptibly built his defensive walls back up, and is now sending sympathetic looks in the young heir’s direction. His withdrawn posture makes Bruce reconsider his own; he drops his shoulders a little, makes himself smaller—accessible. He remembers the difference it often made in the past.

“Damian?”

“I am sorry about what I said. It was not right.”

“Apology accepted,” Colin replies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That was anything but appropriate in… in this context. Or anytime. You were trying to be nice with your initial inquiry and I took it the wrong way. This place and…  _this_ , it makes me… nervous, I guess. I am sorry, too.”

“Alright,” Bruce approves. “Now, Damian, if you want a Latin teacher, I have faith that Colin could be an appropriate choice for you. I am willing to make this arrangement happen, but only if Colin agrees to it. You cannot force him, and you cannot start to list the privileges you have and he lacks, because that is just cruel and uncalled for. I cannot let it pass. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then please answer Colin’s questions,  _politely_ , and we’ll see where that leaves us.”

Colin seems scared and tired, yet Damian gets his undivided attention. The young heir hesitates.

“It is not only charity. Yes, I can hire anyone, but the fact is that  _you_  are here right now, available, and different from every preceptor or teacher I ever had. It would be a welcomed change. There is also the part where Jason asked us to be nice, and I do not want to go against his wishes. Which—I did. I am truly sorry about… about being cruel and calling you ‘ _entertaining_ ’. Although I did not mean anything condescending by it, you did not react too well, so I assume that it hurt you.”

“I was taken aback,” Colin concedes. “But here’s Latin lesson zero for you:  _venia dignus error is humanus_.”

The tension is slowly melting away. Bruce could almost congratulate himself. Colin continues:

“I appreciate your offer. I did not imply anything unkind or bitter either when I mentioned your academic success. I think it’s great that people like you exist—and that’s the thing: they do. I am grateful that you would even just consider helping me out. It means a lot.”

There is a silence. It stretches a tad too long.

“Colin,” Bruce begins, “can I be honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“Alright. Your present education and experience would not be useful to W.E., and what Tim proposed—with the employees’ nursery—could only work if you graduated high school or got your GED, given all the other candidates we could take in. Same thing if we decided to hire you as a Latin teacher for one of our employee development programs.” (Colin acquiesces, his face blank.) “However, and leaving aside the promise I made to Jason, I think that it would benefit both you and Damian to develop this professional relationship. Now, I won’t force you to do that, but could you please consider it? Perhaps try it for a few weeks? We’d pay you fairly, and this would be a  _safe_  job, at least as long as it’ll last. Jason told me that he’d tutor you so you can get your GED, if you two can agree on that. It would make it easier for us to find something for you to do here in the future if you pass it.”

Disbelief radiates from Colin in straining waves; Bruce has dealt with this before. It is not quite unexpected, but boy, does it still twist his guts in spite of the years of training he has with such responses and the ways to manage it.

“It is not a  _trap_ ,” he stresses. “Jason is family, and I don’t plan on letting any of my sons down. I don’t plan on letting  _anyone_  down, as long as their actions are not reprehensible.” He pauses. Colin tenses a little. “If Jay tells me that we have the possibility and some sort of duty to help you, if only to do him a favour, then please know this will be just that. You wouldn’t be selling your soul here.”  _Or anything else_. “It would have no string attached. You could leave anytime. There is nothing asked from you in return beyond what would be mutually agreed in the contract. Once again: no trap. Damian would even pledge to be a  _delight_ , and in the event of him ever breaking this promise, you could come to me to complain, or quit, and that’d be fine.

I know you  _need_  this, and it might sound like I have all the cards in hand, which is admittedly unfair; that’s also not entirely true. To be frank, I’d be upset if Jason’s request was denied, but I already told him to prepare for this eventuality. We cannot demand anything from you, Colin. What we did for you so far was for the sake of basic human decency: we have the means, you need help, Jay vouches for you, we provide. There’s no hidden agenda nor repayment of any kind waiting to be collected. The story can stop here. Still, forgetting Jason’s stubborn ass for a second, I  _personally_  want to help you, and would be very interested to see you working with my son.” His lips twitch upwards in a nifty grin. “I can always appreciate someone who stands up to him and who knows when to stop a fight—two must-have qualities to teach Damian anything, apparently.”

The young heir rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue. His pout is a bit sheepish, and Bruce wishes he could take a picture of that. Colin still seems sceptical. That is a lot of information to think about, to classify in boxes with various degree of perceived truth. Bruce softly adds:

“Even if you decline our proposition, we will— _can_ —find another way to financially support you with… whatever it is that you need the money for. Except drugs. Jay would be devastated. Coercion is not something I stand by, so please believe that only your choices will count here. You are free to cut all communication anytime, we won’t come looking for you; but you can also come  _back_  to us anytime, and we’ll try to help just as much then. I mean it. We keep our word here. It’s a family rule.”

“I noticed.” Colin take his right hand away from the cast, clenches it before he props it up on the desk. “I swore to both Sister Agnes and Jason that I would not pass on available opportunities. It  _does_  sound a bit like a trap, but I brought it on myself. I have to keep my word too.” He stops, appears to realise something important that makes him stutter: “I mean, that—all of that—is very generous of you. Sorry, I… It’s very kind. I’m not used to it. Apart from the nuns and the kids, it’s… Thank you.”

“It’s okay. And I understand.”

Bruce hopes that Colin can somehow hear that it is not a lie, nor a mere courtesy. Even Dick, although the easiest and most accustomed to unconditional love of his four sons before their integration into the family unit, took a while to adjust to the Wayne lifestyle and Bruce’s disinterested acts of care. This saviour complex of his might indeed be coming off too strong at times. Alfred often says so.

“We can try,” Colin decides at last. On Bruce’s right, Damian lets out a silent sigh. “I cannot promise any results on my side, but Jason did all of this for me. I have to honour his efforts.”

“Well, I am glad.” Bruce nods and beams at the teen. “It will take us a few days to prepare a contract that won’t take any of us to court, so please hang in there. I guess that Jason will be happy to bring it to you in person once the draft will be ready. Damian and you can privately agree on a place and a starting date, as well as the length of each lesson. If a regular time slot is inconvenient for you—that is, if this arrangement continues—then I am certain that we can work around your schedule. Damian does not have many obligations, whereas you have… I  _assume_  that you have school to attend. For now.”

“I… yeah. So far, I do. I am secretly afraid of Jason’s perseverance.”

“As one should be,” Damian mumbles.

Bruce lightly taps his son’s arm. He hates to think about how confused and potentially angry Damian is about the whole adoption issue between Jason and the family. They seldom talk about it, although Bruce knows they should. There simply never seems to be a right moment for that.

“I have your phone number, so perhaps Damian could save it and send you a text when things will be more defined?”

Colin shivers. There is both panic and excitement in his voice when he whispers ‘ _sure, it’s fine_ ’. Bruce chooses not to read into it.

“Then I guess it’s settled. We will have to meet again to sign the contract in a proper fashion. I am afraid I cannot give you an exact date yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Colin says, blushing again. “Really, it’s… It’s more than… anything. It’s  _much_. I mean, I even got to snap at a Wayne.” And, quieter: “Not sure that one should land on my resume.”

“We’ll put it in our company files,” Bruce smirks, feigning seriousness. “It could come in handy.”

 

He insists that Duke give Colin a ride back to St Aden’s. The kid looks about to pass out from anxiety (pain? hunger?) the moment Damian comes a bit too close to his perimeter. Bruce is annoyed that it doesn't surprise him one bit. Shortly after the door closes behind both Duke and Colin, he turns to Damian, whose guilt is still perceptible.

“And that is why I do not mix well with people,” the kid groans.

“Have you considered that perhaps you do not mix well with people because you do not spend time with them? The orchestra doesn’t count. I know you only talk about music and to the same three people there.”

“ _Two_ ,” Damian corrects, then adds after a sigh: “I regret my behaviour, father. I got stressed.”

“By Colin?”

“By the family.” Damian walks toward the small desk to put away the supplies he did not have time to gather before. “First Jason called for our help, then Dick asked me to be nicer to Colin than I was when we first met, and this morning, right before we left the house, Alfred told me to be ‘ _pleasant_ ’ today. I don’t know, it's just... It scared me a little, as if I had to prove myself.”

Bruce represses a whimper. “You don’t have to, Damian. You’ll  _never_  have to; do you understand that? They love you.  _I_  love you. They only told you these things because they know you can be a bit harsh to strangers at first, particularly when they come from a different social and cultural background than yours. It doesn't mean that you are insensitive, or anything close to it, but fact is that it takes you a while to adapt your discourse to the people in front of you. And that's okay—you’ll  _learn_. It’s an acquired skill for some. Please don’t let anything or anyone make you believe that you have to prove anything to us, at any given time.”  _Like we tell you every day, in hope that you will listen to us at least once._  “You can let the incident go. If Colin was mad at you, I doubt he would have accepted your first round of apologies so easily.”

“How can you tell?”

Damian grabs his jacket, puts it on, crosses his arms and waits for an answer. He looks more and more like his mother - something Bruce should probably never tell the teen if he wants to avoid the decay of their relationship.

“A few years ago, Jason was really mad at me,” he explains. “I made a mistake shortly after we met, and it took about six months for his anger to weaken enough for him to finally forgive me. That was long before we started to become the people you know today. He would only talk to Dick and Tim at that time, and would lie about not needing help. Pride is a strong enemy.”

“Not always,” Damian lets out between gritted teeth.

Bruce knows when not to argue with his son. He watches as the teen puts his drawing tools back in the lower shelves on the wall, gets up and prepares to leave.

“I am starving,” he says, “Do you want anything from the cafeteria?”

“No, thank you." When Damian takes a step forward, Bruce raises a hand. “One last thing. Colin is a young man living in a convent, with enough worries on his plate that he had to put his basic education on hold. I suppose you figured that much out.”

“I did.”

“My point is  _everything I just say_. You will have to be more careful and considerate when talking to him in the future. We are not here to make him feel miserable, and I will not tolerate that.” (Damian nods.) “Also, and that’s more personal, but you two will be alone during the lesson. You and this other boy.”

Damian half-groans, half-whines. “Father…”

“I just want to make sure that you know what you are doing,” Bruce adds, trying to keep his voice soft. “Look, Damian, we all love you. That does not come with a checklist, let alone punishments when a box isn’t ticked. We only hope that you’ll develop bonds beyond the family because it would be healthier for you. Colin seems really nice, and not the kind to start fights or to force things on people. He could become your friend—an  _actual_  friend. You could talk to him about anything you want, anything you fear and everything you do not want us to know or discuss with you. However, before that, you might want to find out where he stands on certain topics.”

“Because he is religious?” Damian sounds almost sad.

“No, we don’t know that. It’s an orphanage as much as a convent. And even if he is, that does not speak absolute truths regarding his personal views.”

Knowing what the kid does—or did—for money makes Bruce angry again, with a side of frustration this time when the man thinks about how sensitive a topic such as Damian’s sexuality could be to someone with a history like Colin’s, ad vice-versa. He shakes his head, takes a few deep breathes. This will be  _complicated_.

“Please don’t ask him too directly whether he believes in God or not. That can be considered rude, not to mention that it could upset him. It is a private matter for many people. What I originally meant to say was that Colin might find himself uncomfortable discussing specific subjects, or, on the contrary, given the variety of people and situations he encountered so far, much more comfortable with these than you currently are.”

“I’m good,” Damian snaps.  _Breathe, Bruce, no outburst_ …

“Damian…”

“It’s not too bad anymore,” the teen insists. “I feel better with… with myself. With it.”

“Do you?”

Damian chews on his tongue. After a while, he exchanges a glance with his father, finally answers a frail: “ _Yes_.”

And it's a lie.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth night Damian ever spent at Wayne Manor is one of Dick’s most vivid memories of love. A light in the mayhem. When he thinks back on the small hands wrapped around his own, on those green eyes full of tears, on Damian once being this confused twelve-year-old who could not comprehend the elasticity of one’s inclination to care, the only thing Dick can feel is  _warmth_ , pure warmth, crawling from his skin to the depths of his flesh, to the marrow of his bones, to the very core of what makes his existence necessary and true. He gets drunk on it, each day a bit more. He embraces the thirst and welcomes the overflow.

Damian is taller than Tim now. He seldom asks for help, seldom holds anyone’s hand. The lies he learned to speak stir Dick’s blood withershins; and yet, somehow, the man is alright with that. He will take whatever the kid is willing to give him, and never ask for more. He knows when to give space to his brothers, when to worry with reason, how to approach them to prevent things to crumble. Bruce’s guidance and selflessness helped him stitch the patchwork of his life with nothing but hope, affection and patience. It is big enough for two. Damian will never have to fall.

 

When he receives a text from the kid reading ‘ _please help me with something?_ ’, Dick doesn’t ask questions. He drives from Jason’s place, where he spent the night, to the Manor in less than thirty minutes. He routinely checks the kitchen first. Damian is indeed waiting for him in here, still wearing black pajamas and kitten-printed slippers. His eyes are a little glossy and his cheeks are a faint shade of red. He is hesitating between two boxes of leaf tea he is holding in his hands. Water is boiling on the counter behind him. He looks up when Dick knocks on the open door.

“Hey you,” the man coos. “Is this what you need help with?”

“Hey. Maybe. Black or green?”

“Green.”

“Genmaicha it is.”

Humming in agreement, Dick sits behind the table. Alfred is out running errands already. Bruce and Tim usually leave the house around eight. Although he recently bought a flat, only a couple blocks away from the one Jason rents, Dick never really moved out of the Manor. He was ready to, about three years ago, but Damian unexpectedly came to live with them around that time, shortly before Dick graduated from college and right when Jason was granted the right to study at Gotham Academy. The family’s plans changed at once.

Dick could have left anytime, of course; nobody was pressuring him to stay, or even expecting him to. But  _Damian was here_. After two years of seeing the kid only a couple weeks at a time, with months between the visits, Dick finally got the chance to live with him, to support and protect him every day, to answer his every call. He never once regretted that.

“Jason says ‘hi’. He told me that Kate found the book you were looking for, so he’ll bring it to you later today.”

“Will he be staying the night?”

Sympathy scorches Dick’s heart every time Damian talks about Jason and fails to keep a neutral tone. The teen’s views are definite: one is either  _in_ , or  _out_  of the family. No ambiguity allowed. If nothing official says that one is in, then they are a stranger or possibly a friend. Not  _one of Bruce Wayne’s sons_.

The situation would be simpler if Damian and Jason hated each other; but, after two initial, difficult and  _loud_  years spent building a civil relationship for the sake of Bruce’s contentment and sanity, Damian started to seek out Jason’s advice and presence almost as much as he does Dick’s, and more than he does Tim’s. In return, Jason is blunt and open with him about everything Bruce and Dick still hesitate to discuss. The balance they found makes it almost unbearable for Damian, some days, to get reminded of the fact that Jason never lived here, that he  _refuses_  to be a Wayne.

Dick lets a few seconds pass before he softly answers:

“If you ask him to, he will.”

Damian nods, his lips curving upward in a small grin. He brings the two teacups he just prepared to the table and sits in front of his brother.

“Thanks,” Dick smiles. “Now, tell me, what can I help you with?”

“Do you remember Colin?”

Damian’s voice quivers toward the end, spelling out anxiety, a hint of fear, and a raw honesty Dick is proud to discover here.

“I do, yes. How often do we get to play ambulance for some injured redhead Jason found on the street?”

“So far,  _twice_.”

Dick laughs. “No—Roy doesn’t count. He was in his flat, to begin with, and both him  _and_  Jason needed a ride to Leslie’s practice that night. Reckless kids.” When Damian doesn’t react much, he adds: “But yes, I remember Colin. I heard that he will become your Latin teacher, is that right?”

“It is. The contracts are ready, and both Colin and his guardian agreed to the terms, so now we only have to select a starting date.” Damian marks a pause, his fingers playing a restless rhythm on the cup he is holding with both hands. “Father said that I should contact Colin myself.”

Dick leans back on his chair.  _There it is_. He doesn’t need his brother to tell him why this situation is problematic. Not only does Damian always perform poorly in social situations, but to top this one off he was rude to Colin every time they met so far. Dick secretly thinks that he saw an interest of a different kind, a new curiosity hidden behind the typical annoyance in the way Damian was staring at the redhead in the car. He hopes he read it wrong. He’d rather Damian not be deceived by budding crushes that could too easily end up in a heartbreak.

“Well, in this case, I guess proper greetings and a polite question will do,” he offers. “Don’t overthinking this.”

“I  _have_  to,” Damian retorts, frowning. “Father said that I spoke cruel words last Friday.”

“But dad also told me that Colin accepted your apology. It’s alright, Damian. He meant it, I’m sure, so you can just send him something casual, throw a cute emoji in there, and give him the opportunity to pick the date and time. It’ll be fine.”

The teen is not convinced, but he nods anyway. He takes a sip from his cup with a forced concentration that could be sort of cute if the situation was not as tense. The two don’t say anything for a while. When his cup is empty, Damian mumbles:

“I actually need a ride to the nearest optician. My glasses are broken.”

Dick arches an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were the most careful of us all.”

“Why, I  _am_ ,” Damian scoffs, “but Titus did not get the memo and my glasses suffered the worst consequences.”

Dick chuckles, keeps a small smile on his lips. He remembers the day Damian nearly broke down crying because he could no longer see the tiny lines on a canvas he had been working on for a few hours in a row. It never occurred to the boy that it was  _okay_  to need glasses, okay not to have  _perfect_  everything. It took Bruce a whole week to convince him that seeing an optometrist would not be the end of the world. Ultimately, not being able to draw as much as he wanted to left Damian with no other choice—and, even then, it took a decent amount of coercing to get him in the car.

It was two years ago. Damian does not wear his glasses often, nowadays, but it is still a hindrance not to have them when he is on a drawing rampage.

“I’ll take you there after breakfast, yeah?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dick pauses a few seconds, crafting his next words with caution. “You didn’t need Colin to teach you Latin, did you?” (A defensive glare.) “It was nice of you to offer him a job. It's also a bit… ah, I don’t know, uncharacteristic?” (Damian pushes himself back on his chair.) “Not the kindness thing, of course, rather the social aspect of the situation. You making a friend.”

“He is my  _teacher_.”

“Come on, Damian…”

“ _No_ ,” the teen snaps. “Please, not  _you_. Father already questioned me in the same fashion. It makes me really uncomfortable.”

“That was not in my plans,” Dick sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about that. It’s just… It’s great to see you hanging out with someone from the outside—by your own wish, no less. You know how much I… how all of us have wanted that for you.”

“And I am doing it,” Damian retorts, his breathing quickening. “When do I win? I reject outside interaction, you all tell me to make more efforts. I give in to your request, and suddenly it’s all about… About…”

He is upset. Avoiding Dick’s glance. Perhaps there indeed  _was_  something else in the car, like an assessment of sorts.  _Is Colin dangerous? Can he keep a secret?_  Each and every cell in Dick’s body is urging him to scout forward, hug his brother, apologise for ever making him think that something about him was wrong. He however favours to spell truths out instead.

“I’m only talking  _friendship_  here, Damian. Please don’t twist my words?”

Damian bites his lips, sheepish all of a sudden. Dick smiles to appease the tension. He finishes his tea, watches as his brother collects his emotions, before he adds:

“For what it’s worth, we’d react the same way if you were straight and Colin was a girl. Two teenagers in a room, several hours a week, with no supervision? Fair enough, but with rules. That’s all we’re discussing here, kiddo: rules. Nothing drastic, common sense only, and the request that you tell us— _any_  of us—if things develop more than expected between you and Colin.”

“Who lives in a convent and is very likely straight.”

Dick cannot argue with that. A huge part of him hopes that this assumption will prove to be true, even though Damian’s tone leads him to think that it would probably crush the kid’s heart here and there.

But  _here and there_  would be fine. They can manage the cracks.

“I’m going to say this once and only once,” Dick starts, leaning in, “because it costs me to do so: you are downright unprepared to date anyone. Any boy. Any  _girl_ —which, really, please don’t force yourself to try.”

And  _oh_ , that look. Anger, sadness, and the right amount of betrayal that makes Dick want to dig his own grave right in this moment.

“I trust you,” he quickly adds. “I trust that you wouldn’t deliberately put yourself in situations you cannot handle. But it’s all too easy and natural to listen to anything but reason at your age, even more so when you’re dealing with this whole acceptance thing. I’m sorry that dad and I are often picturing the worst-case scenario in any given situation. You know us. You know…”  _A wild card._  “You know that’s the reason why Jason doesn’t live here. Because we made mistakes, and we assumed things,  _good_  things most times, but it overwhelmed him. It’s not an excuse, we’re… we’re working on that. We love all of you very much and it comes with countless flaws. Please don’t be mad? I’ll do better. I swear I will.”

Damian stares deep into Dick’s eyes as though he expects to uncover a lie. He doesn’t find any.

“Tell me what happened between father and Jason,” he demands.

Dick sighs, relieved by the change of topic, although unsure of how much details he can disclose on the matter. At least the teen hasn’t bolted away, and his anger is dissipating. Dick makes a mental note to acknowledge Damian’s newfound traces of temperance, at some point. For now, he must keep this conversation going.

“You will have to be more specific here.”

“Father talked about six months of silence.”

Dick groans—all pain and bitterness. He hates to recall the events of that time, the fruitless efforts, the stubbornness and the yelling, the Waynes’ actions always wounding Jason one way or the other. Back then already, they were a  _family_. They all knew it, needed it, and it hurt  _so damn much_. Dick still jolts awake some nights, mulling over the things he could have done better. He thinks about his dad, his sadness, these shoulders carrying a weight too heavy not to scar; about Martha Wayne’s shawl, so thin, so bright, enveloping seventeen-year-old Jason like an ice cold flame sparking life under his skin.

“They fought,” he manages.

“What about?”

“It’s not my place to tell. Please don’t scowl like that, it’s… Remember when you came out to dad and me only at first?” (Damian recoils a tad.) “It was a big deal for you. That’s the same thing for them. They still care about this stuff, and that’s where their problems start. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. You can ask Jason, though. He is not as private with you as he is with other people. If you really want to know, he’ll tell.”

Damian nods, his displeased pout making him look younger. Dick grins at the sight before he gets up, grabs both of their cups and opens the dishwasher.

“I don’t plan on dating Colin,” Damian says behind him, sounding (falsely) detached. “Or  _anyone_. If something happens one day and it bothers me, then I’ll tell someone. Probably you.”

“That’s all we ask, Damian. Thanks.”

A beat, until the teen whispers:

“Do you think it will go away?”

Dick is scared to find out what ‘ _it_ ’ stands for in this sentence. The quiet tone doesn’t help. Nothing anyone tells Damian about his sexuality has ever settled in the teen’s mind long enough to stick once and for all. They keep trying. They’ll always try. It seems like a lost battle most days and, given what is at stake, Dick can barely hold it together at times.

And that’s why he knows he  _should_  ask, that whatever ‘it’ is, he has to answer  _something_. He just cannot find the energy to do the right thing anymore.

“Jason might stop by any time after noon. How about we get this glasses business on the road? Let’s not miss his visit.”

Damian reads through the avoidance. A quick glance is enough for Dick to know that his brother feels betrayed again, and that fact twists his heart sideways. He has no idea what to do or say to the teen at this point. Truths are upsetting. Lies burn and stain his tongue.

_When do I win?_

 

* * *

 

 

Truth be told, Colin needs these men. It’s not about the money.

He stares at his naked knees where no bruise is visible. They are not his, but a stranger’s. They tell no story and carry no proof that Colin was worth something for some people, some nights, if only for a few minutes of glory stolen straight from the pit where his nightmares stand still. A hint of self-esteem has replaced the void in there.

Colin is not ready for this.

“You listening, Annie?”

He has been calling Jason all too much since they met. He expected to be rejected after a few days, or after one too many silly question. It never happened. Jason answers almost immediately, each time, calls him back as soon as his shift ends if he is at the library or between two lectures if he is at Gotham U, and always offers to meet Colin at St Aden’s in case the teen would like to speak face-to-face. His voice is quiet as he speaks honest tales and comforts Colin in a way that makes the redhead believe the knot tied tight around his soul will soon lose some its hold.

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Jason says. “I’ll keep talking, if you don’t mind. Tim was feeling…  _ill_ , today, so I’ll visit him tomorrow. Fucks me up every time it comes to this. Dick is out of town, and dad has too much work to do this week to be able to stay at home. Damian is not comfortable around Tim in these situations, and Alfred, the butler, has errands to attend to. That leaves no one but  _me_. Mind you, I don't mind it. I’d visit Tim every day if I could. I’d  _live_  with him, even; it just makes it easier to think about it logically for now." A sigh. "Family’s a  _mess_ , ginger. I’d still recommend.”

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to go  _out_.”

On the other side of the line, Jason shuffles through some papers. Colin hears GCPD sirens coming from the window he left half-open. It’s calling him. It’s screaming his name.

“Okay,” Jason says. “Can you tell me why?”

 _No_. “There’s nothing on my knees. No bruise or anything.” A pause. “It’s not… it’s not me, alright?”

“Isn’t it?”

Colin dismisses the comment. He waits for Jason to break the silence kept between gritted teeth.

“Can I ask you questions, or would you rather I talk more ‘til you fall asleep?”

“I… I dunno,” the teen breathes out. He closes his eyes, covers his knees with a heavy plaid. “Can  _I_  ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you often call Bruce Wayne ‘ _dad_ ’?”

There is a lot Colin doesn’t understand about Jason’s relationship with the Waynes. He tries not to think about it much. As far as he gathered, the librarian considers the three heirs his brothers, and Bruce Wayne a mentor, a  _parent_  of some sort. It is the first time Jason slipped and called the billionaire ‘dad’, though. It was always implied, somehow, but now that Colin heard it spoken out loud, the word sounds just like the right amount of  _right_ , like an unyielding truth. Like something Jason knows.

“Not often. Not  _enough_. It’s complicated, as you might have guessed. Perhaps I’ll tell you all about it, one day. Quite a ride.”

“I bet.”

The room is cold. The open window, the broken heater. Colin forgot to mention it to Sister Agnes—two  _years_  ago. He piles up layers and stays in the nest he made for himself in a corner of the room, between the desk and a wall, opposite side of the door. Having his own room is a luxury, but also a curse. It pushed him out. Created  _habits_.

“Is there a man out there you’d sort-of-want to see the most?”

Colin is not certain he heard correctly, or that he should answer this. Jason’s tone is casual, no trace of disgust in the sound, no reproach nor curiosity. He’s giving the teen something to talk about, that’s all. And it is stupid, and maybe a bit wrong, but Colin feels alright with his unlawful crap being treated like a normal job, like something that happened to him but does not make him a bad person. He wonders if—he  _prays_  that—the Lord will be as merciful as Jason is.

“Number four,” Colin mutters.

“You give them  _numbers_?”

“It’s easier than names, yeah. The less I knew…”

“Yeah, I get it. What’s Four like?”

“Short. Lean. Grey hair. All-together normal guy, no weird stuff going on beside… well, me. Gives me a different name each time…” The redhead catches a breath, long enough to take in Jason’s polite lack of comment. “Girl names, for most part, but I don’t mind. I don’t care. He pays well and doesn’t try to talk sweet. Never left a mark on me, so there’s that, too.”

“Is it the one  _I_  could wish you’d think about in this context, or the one you’re thinking about for real?”

Colin has to ponder the question for a while.

“No, it’s… He’s the nicest of them all.  _In this context_ ,” he adds, knowing very well that Jason is not  _that_  okay with this conversation, that none of this should even be discussed, ever, because it shouldn’t have happened at all. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course.”

“What should I know about Damian?”

Jason snickers. Colin feels a blush running from his chest to his cheeks.

“He’s a piece of work,” Jason says, voice fond and a tad mocking. “Not the sociable type, as you’ve seen, but he has a good soul. Don’t give up on him yet.”

“Not planning to. How much did you tell him?”

“About you?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing. Not my place. Look, Damian  _will_  be difficult; it’s a given. But he won’t be mean on purpose, or angry for no reason. It’s still a challenge for him to transition from his old life to the one he can have here, courtesy of ingrained—and  _terrible_ —ideas he struggles to get rid of. I guess you’re familiar with such things.”

“Do you think we’ll become friends?”

The teen is surprised to hear how fragile his voice is. It is soon midnight, and he is exhausted. His arm is not getting better. He went through six panic attacks within the past four days, which strained his body and mind more than he can realistically expect to manage in the long run.

“I hope so,” Jason mumbles. “I  _really_  do.”

“What if we don’t?”

“Well, in this case, I’m afraid you might have to renounce to that cute crush of yours.”

“Hush,” Colin groans, earning a short laugh.

“Relax, freckles. Damian is pretty much oblivious to this kind of things. It’s all war and little peace, with that one. If it matters to you at all, I am perfectly fine with you having feelings for him, however please do  _not_  tell him about your affections.”

Colin inhales deeply before he forgets how to breathe, his whole body tensed all of a sudden. There are a million thoughts flying through his head, most of which he wishes he never had to associate with Damian of all people. Most of which are  _ugly_.

“Oh, shit,” Jason growls. “No, Colin, no, this isn’t about what you do, I swear, I’m sorry it came out this way. Please breathe, okay? It’s… It’s something else—please believe me. Damian has a hard time with relationships, is all, so he wouldn’t know how to react rationally to a boy confessing to him, and it would be chaos. I meant to say ‘do not tell him  _for now_ ’, but I worded it badly. I’m so sorry, kid. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” the teen croaks. He is trembling and swaying a little, his right knee bent so that he can rest his head on it.

“Good. Please forgive me, it’s late, and I am virtually useless after a whole hour without unhealthy doses of caffeine. I’d never prevent you to think about, let alone explicitly try to explore  _healthy_  relationships for a change. Hell, I’d cheer for the two of you if things were not what they are—on  _Damian_ ’s part, not...”

“Alright,” Colin sighs. “Alright.”

He decides not to close the window. He cannot move. On the line, Jason clears his throat, lets the silence ring in for what seems like a long time before he murmurs:

“You’ve got school tomorrow, don’t you? You should get some rest.”

Colin shifts uncomfortably. “I’m dropping out.”  _I need your help_.

“Very well,” Jason replies, like it’s nothing, like he expected that. “We’ll figure something out, with a proper schedule, weighing in your options, your aspirations, your strengths—the works. We’ll get you through this.”

And Colin believes him. He doesn’t know how long he will be able to trust Jason, or  _anyone_ , so he cherishes each day he finds himself welcoming people’s kindness without second thoughts.

He finally stopped trembling, although his body still refuses to obey his commands. The quietness around him, even more so on the phone, is oppressive enough that the simple idea of sleeping is scary, as though he was nine again and convinced that mean men would take him away and put him in a cell.

Not too far off a fear.

“When I was sixteen, and even before, I had the hardest time sleeping, be it day or night.”

Jason’s tone is cautious, apprehensive under the cool, like scratching the surface of something almost holy.

“I’d usually pass out after a couple days without naps. I had trouble at home, at school, with  _myself_. I was terrified all the time. Then, I met the Waynes, and shit got a billion times scarier. I feared losing or disappointing people for the first time in years, and it drove me insane. I’d spend too many hours awake, too little dealing with nightmares, and always so damn alone. That is, until Dick got tired of this circle and decided to call me, one night—and the next, and the one after. He’d call every day, or almost, for about a year. I’d leave my phone on speaker, lie down on my bed, and each time I was stressed, anxious, or simply asking him to, he would read me stories he used to love as a child. He’s  _such_  a big brother.”

Colin wishes he could drown in the respect and tenderness Jason always expresses when he talks about the Waynes. He wonders how many of God’s blessings one must collect in order to be at the receiving end of a love so absolute. He knows he’ll never be enough; but he has accepted that.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I like  _The Six Swans_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Damian settled on arriving early, giving himself plenty of time to drop by a nearby bakery. He spent the whole morning wondering what he could do to apologise to Colin again, what could bring a truce, and whether a new start will be possible or not. Thankfully, Alfred took pity of him, during lunch, and suggested some sweets and a warm drink as a first step toward peaceful exchanges. Damian has no idea what kind of sweets Colin likes. What if the answer is  _none_? Do people like Colin even have access to sweets other than cheap chocolate bars? What if something too refined ends up seen as insulting, like a display of privilege? Damian almost growls in frustration at the choices in front of him. In the end, he decides on a colourful assortment of macarons, grabs two coffee cups to go, and can but hope for the best.

 

He keeps his eyes on the clock.  _Four minutes to wait_. The coffee is still hot on the table in front of him, the room bathed in a dim light. Damian picked a meeting room on the twelfth floor—blue walls, wooden tables and chairs, opposite side of the sun at this hour. His father had offered to lend them his personal office, which Damian had initially accepted with gratitude, until an emergency meeting called for a change of plans. Although he assured his father that it was fine, the teen was a bit disappointed to have to relocate. The office is lovely, and a cosy space could probably make Colin—and him—feel more comfortable. Damian hopes that his ability to keep his anger more or less in check will be shining, today.

But it’s not all about Colin and his deep brown eyes, that small scar on his jaw, or the patterns of his freckles. Tim’s situation has always puzzled Damian. The two of them are not very close, much to the family’s dismay, but guilt and shame still take possession of Damian’s every thought each time he finds himself unable to help or even simply be around Tim when the man needs reassurance the most. Something about it still hits the wrong kind of nerves.

Damian cannot find any decent sleep when Tim shuts everyone off. Although he yearns to find a way to approach his brother without risking making things worse, he knows that his chances of mending this relationship are thin. He learned to let some of it go, compromising when he can. He checks on Tim from afar, prays gods he doesn’t believe in for miracles to happen, throws pennies in wishing wells, pins notes on wish trees, and wishes, and  _wishes_.

“Hello.”

Damian flinches. Colin is standing at the door, a shy smile on his lips, looking a bit amused. Damian scowls, but it morphs into a grin soon enough.

“Hi,” he replies. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You left the door open.  _I_  am sorry, I live with toddlers—learned to be stealthy so not to wake them up from naps.”

Damian nods as the redhead crosses the distance between them, sits in a nearby chair, straightens up, and takes a notebook from the messenger bag he carries. He seems tired, dark circles under his eyes, cracks on his bottom lip, his cast still in place. Damian focuses on a perfect triangle of freckles next to the left commissure of Colin’s lips, all three spots a different shade of sienna, something the young heir wants to  _touch_ ; but he doesn’t, of course, because of the obvious and many inappropriate things it would imply. He bites his tongue in self-reprimand instead, crosses his arms, and catches the exact moment Colin notices the macarons on the table between them. The vague air of confusion on the other teen’s face makes Damian feel nervous in a second.

“Those are for you,” he offers. “There are different flavours, so hopefully you’ll like at least one. Also, sorry, I went with coffee without knowing whether you drink any.”

Colin’s gaze sets on Damian, without a single trace of animosity.

“I do,” he answers with a smile. “That’s nice of you, thanks. Caffeine is always appreciated. I actually never had macarons before. How much sugar am I in for?”

“Not sure… A week’s worth?”

When Colin chuckles, Damian finds himself smirking in response. He grabs his cup of coffee and takes a few sips, while Colin pushes the notebook across the table, details each macaron, and picks a raspberry flavoured one.

“I’ve thought about a study plan,” he says, “but I didn’t know what your goals were, so it was a little difficult. This book contains my notes from when I started to learn. Perhaps it will help you tell me exactly what kind of objectives you would like to achieve, form a sort of timeline, or something? You can keep it, by the way. It might be a tad confusing, but it can give you an idea of how I started. We can adapt it to your usual learning process.”

“Thank you.”

Damian flicks through the first few pages, quickly glancing at Colin from time to time. The first bite the redhead takes into his macaron is followed by a grimace.

“That bad?” Damian asks.

“Oh, no— _no_ ,” Colin replies, blushing, putting on a sheepish grin. “You were right, that is a  _lot_  of sugar. And delicious. Please do not leave me alone with the box?”

“Well, if you get sick because of something I gave you, I’ll get in trouble, so I guess I should help you with these indeed.”

“Thanks for your sacrifice.”

Somehow, Damian is lost in the current atmosphere Colin and he share. It is not that much less tensed than their second encounter, for some reason, as if they were simply meant to be at least a bit uncomfortable around each other at all time. Damian knows that he should not give in to fatality. This reflex has for too long stuck to his skin, infected his brain, and translated into actions he ended up regretting rather fast. It is still too hard to fight, most days. He tries to make an effort this afternoon, because he promised his father he would, because this arrangement  _has_  to work; but, there is something about Colin he refuses to acknowledge, and part of him wants to run while the other longs to  _wreck_ , to deceive on purpose just so he would never have to face a truth the redhead might make too easy to admit.

It takes him a while to realise that he is staring at Colin instead of reading the teen’s notes, which does not help the tension drop. Colin’s expression now bears signs of apprehension.

“Sorry,” Damian mumbles. “I spaced out a little. Regarding my objectives, I’ll be fine with a basic vocabulary but would like to learn as many grammar rules as possible. It is always easy to check a dictionary, whereas a lack of understanding of sentence structures is more complicated to fix on my own.” (Colin nods, right hand scratching his cast.) “I don’t have any pressing need to read complicated titles, so no rush for that, although I’d like to be able to decipher simple texts by myself relatively soon.”  _As fast as necessary for me not to fall in a masquerade of love with you_. “If it’s too much work for you in a single day to go to school then come here, we can meet during the week-ends instead.”

“Uh, no, it’s…,” Colin stutters, embarrassed and on the defensive. “I dropped out, so… It’s alright. I’ll pass my GED instead. With Jason’s help.”

Damian does not know what to answer, given how his last remark about Colin’s education came out and was received. He nods—probably the safest move—and keeps his mouth shut in fear of saying yet another offensive word. (He keeps these for the day the ties will have to be broken.)

“Anyway, we can meet anytime,” Colin goes on. “I wouldn’t advise for more than once a week, though, as you need time to retain the information. I assume,” he adds, raising his right hand in a peaceful sign.

“Yes, that’d be better this way.”  _The less we meet…_  “Would every Monday afternoon for two to three hours be okay for you?”

“Sure.”

The two teens do not exchange any more words for a while. Colin points to the macaron box, from which Damian takes a chocolate flavoured sweet.

“Your coffee must be cold by now,” the young heir says.

“That’s, uh…,” Colin shakes his head, a blush spreading up to the tip of his ears, a crooked smile on his lips. “That’s how I like it—and yes, I know, most people don’t, so I’m open to criticism on that matter.”

Damian cannot help but grin.  _Not good. Not good._

 

* * *

 

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Tim—what are you? A  _bat_?”

Jason jumps over the scattered books, pieces of furniture, and clothes thrown on the floor, until he reaches the windows. He opens the curtains and pushes the shutters, letting the light in. Tim’s room is even more of a mess than usual. Jason expected that. Tim is contemplating the ceiling, his back on the floor, his legs raised so that his calves are resting on the bed. He is wearing one of Dick’s old sweaters, bright green with black stripes, surprisingly tight for him. Jason takes a deep breath and counts to ten before he starts moving around the room, picking things up and putting them back where they belong, his movements automatic. It's a routine.

“I know, Tim,” the librarian sighs. “I’m late— _days_  late. I wanted to visit you earlier, but nightmares came by and I am not half the man Bruce is when it comes to taking care of people regardless of my own issues. I would have called, but…” He doesn’t finish this sentence, just stands in front of the bed on which he drops all the clothes he gathered. “Your hair got dusty from wiping the floor,” he sighs. “It’s cool if you want me to wash it, but first, we must talk. About  _me_.”

Tim catches the left cuff of Jason’s jeans, tugs at it to invite his brother to come closer. And Jason complies, as he always does with him. He groans at the rudeness of the floor when he lies next to Tim, pokes the young man’s feet with his own in the hope of a livelier reaction. Tim gets closer, his cheeks resting on Jason’s shoulder, his arm kept across his stomach so Jason’s hand and his won’t touch.

“Alright,” Jason smiles. “It’s good to see you. I missed you, Tim. I know that you are having a hard time staying focused right now, but I promised aunt Kate that I would discuss that whole adoption issue with you and Dick this month. Is it okay if we talk now?” Tim does not move an inch, which in these moments is just as good as a ‘ _yes_ ’. “Okay." Jason takes a deep breath. "I apologise for all the pain and the confusion I have created every time I refused to let Bruce adopt me. I know how much it hurt you. Bruce and I always had the worst timings, right from the beginning and up to the last time I seriously considered signing the papers, and that’s what sent us downhill. We run on bad luck, and it affects all of you, and it is unfair.”

Tim very quietly hums in agreement, the sound a bit bitter. On the ceiling, more stars have appeared since the last time Jason visited the room. Damian painted them.

“I am sorry, Tim,” the older man whispers. “So very sorry. The worst part is that I am not even here to tell you that I’ll sign anything now, or tomorrow, or next year, because dad and I have not discussed it in such a long time now, and I just… Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore, you know? There might only be so much his heart can take, and I wasted my chances, and... I dunno. Bottom line is that I love you, and you’re my brother, and nothing stresses me more than knowing that no paper will be here to prove to any hospital that I should be by your side and hold your hand in case the worst things happen.”

Tim drags a long breath in, holds it for a while before he softly exhales. Jason counts to ten once again, his eyes on the stars Damian painted for Tim to watch through the thick fog of his mind. How the kid managed to put golden leaves up there, he is dying to know. With a sigh, he gets up, ignores the dust on his clothes as he extends his hands for his little brother to grab.

“Come on. Let’s go wash your hair.”

He guides Tim toward the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. It all falls into a mechanic of sort, as the younger man goes to sit on a small stool against the bathtub. Jason takes the shower head, kneels down, lets the water run and waits until it is lukewarm on his palm.

“Tim,” he calls, “can you please move your head above the tub?”

Tim looks upset. He crosses his arms on the deck and bends forward without as much as a glance for the other man, who shrugs it off. Tim has every right to be angry.

Jason washes the young man’s hair in slow motions, rinses it abundantly before he helps him straightening up again. He hands a towel to Tim, who accepts it and starts drying his hair. He seems calmer already, although he is still avoiding Jason’s stare.

Jason brings their foreheads together. He can feel the sobs caught in his throat, the ache in his lungs as he breathes in his own guilt. He traces patterns on the back of his brother’s hands, like a silent prayer.

“I don’t want dad to give up on me, Tim,” he pleads. “I need him. I  _love_  him.” And, weaker: “What should I do?”

Tim looks up until his dark eyes are staring straight into Jason’s, his eyelashes thickened by the water. Sheer distress is written all over his face. Jason’s vision blurs as his respiration quickens. Placing his elbow on the bathtub deck for balance, he buries his eyes behind his hand, and cries and cries some more. He feels Tim’s lips gently pressing on his fingers, on his forehead; Tim’s hand on his cheek. In his mind, for a second, Jason is sixteen again, only this time he welcomes Bruce’s care with open arms, and answers with nothing but gratitude and love.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and the subscriptions. Anxiety often makes it difficult for me to write more of this story, but your support makes it more bearable.  
> 

Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent met between the emergency exit and the backroom of an exclusive Metropolis nightclub, twenty-two years ago. Clark had jumped through the half-open fire door and closed it behind him in haste. He was out of breath, his skin flushed, his whole body shaking. There was blood on his knuckles, on his cuffs, on the collar of his white shirt. Bruce was standing ten feet away, no longer blinded by the blue lights of the backroom. He was a bit high, beyond bored, and definitely annoyed by the sudden obstruction of the escape route he had intended to use to bid a discreet farewell to this place, to these people, to the bad beats and the empty thrill.

It took Clark a whole minute to let go of the panic bolt, catch his breath, and kneel— _drop_ —on the tiles. He closed his eyes, just a few seconds, before he glanced over his shoulder. Bruce had not moved an inch, only shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn-out designer jeans. The man on the floor squinted, twisted his body until his back was on the door. Some blood dribbling from his nose to his chin had already started to dry. He gave Bruce a lopsided grin, waved him a swift sign, and murmured an inaudible ‘ _hey_ ’.

Bruce chuckled.

He walked up to Clark and helped him stand up. He didn’t ask any question but ‘ _man, are you blind?_ ’, to which Clark answered ‘ _just lost my glasses between a punch and here_ ’; so they hit the streets. They walked for hours, swaying a little, stopping here and there to talk to hookers and give change to beggars, never finding Clark’s glasses but somehow making it to his flat before dawn. They crashed on the grey carpet of the cramped living room Bruce would visit more and more in the years that followed. They fell asleep holding hands and woke up with their bones aching from the hardness of the floor, Clark still unable to see anything three feet away from his eyes. Bruce cooked them breakfast, almost burning the kitchen twice, listening to Clark speak his name like one writes gospels on paper cranes.

Bruce didn’t need more. Clark was simply enough. They were young and hollow, bubbles in a carton box, pebbles in cities of lights. They were old friends and somewhat in love.

 

They  _are_  old friends, older now, and Bruce loves him so much that his rib cage strains to open each time the very thought of Clark slips away from his nights.

“I said ‘ _please_ ’,” Clark smiles, liquid kindness under soft edges.

“I heard you.”

They locked themselves in Bruce’s office a couple minutes ago, a second breakfast waiting on the desk between them. Their feet are touching, like a game from their youth. Clark looks the same as he did the night they met, regardless of the wider build, of the grey hair among the black, of the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. The blue of his irises, with this brown spot in the left one and this gleam of determination tied to the infinite sweetness of his gaze, remained the same. Bruce feels at home in this shade.

“Tell me about them,” Clark half-demands, half-begs. “I haven’t been here in weeks.”

“A month.”

“In _a month_. Please—tell me about the kids.”

Bruce forces himself not to read too much into Clark’s habit of calling them  _the kids_  instead of  _your kids_ , something that started right from the day Dick moved into the Manor. Clark had a son himself, some thirteen years ago, with colleague and on-off girlfriend Lois Lane, but Jon, born premature and under dying stars, lived less than an hour before his tiny lungs gave up.

Bruce’s ensuing attempts to contact Clark remained unanswered for weeks. In the end, one morning, Clark stopped by the Manor and went straight to Bruce’s bedroom. He slept for days, refusing most of the food Bruce and Alfred brought him, barely saying a word or leaving the bed. He only emerged from these waters the evening Dick sneaked into the room with homemade biscuits and his favourite storybook, cute smile missing baby teeth and his hair still wet from his bath. He read to Clark for a while and fell asleep after a few tales. Bruce watched as his friend got up and tucked the boy under the covers. He then walked up to him and shielded his strong body in a tight embrace. Clark cried for a long time, letting Bruce guide him to another room where they lay on the bed, Martha Wayne’s shawl thrown over Clark’s trembling frame.

They seldom discussed Jon’s case after that. Lois temporarily left the newspaper she worked for alongside Clark in Metropolis. After she went back, the two slowly adjusted to each other again, dated again, separated again, and so on, and so on. Bruce let things follow their course. He mentioned Jon a few times, with results varying from resolute silences to Clark openly describing his pain. Tim came along, then Jason, then Damian; and Clark was always here, always listening, always ready to welcome every new addition to Bruce’s family with as much love and warmth as he would a nephew—a  _son_.

And, through all of this, Clark never really changed. His body aged, and his smiles waned, yet he retained this same soul Bruce fell for hard enough to know how thick the skin is, how bright the beacon of Clark’s will shines.

“Dick is fine,” he answers with a small grin, “mostly. I used to think that Damian would be the one who’d find it difficult to leave home, given the circumstances, but it turns out Dick is definitely struggling to move out. Not that I mind.”

“Not that you mind,” Clark laughs. “What will become of you the day they’ll all be gone?”

“Speak no evil, Kent.”

Bruce pours coffee in their respective cups while Clark puts strawberry jam on a dozen scones.

“Tim is doing much better. He came back to work yesterday, and everybody reported to me that he was, and I quote, ‘ _on fire_ ’.”

“Attaboy.”

“Indeed.”

Clark stuffs his mouth with half a scone before he pushes the plate in Bruce’s direction. The billionaire’s phone vibrates at the same moment—a message from Damian. Clark waits until Bruce is done reading it before he asks:

“How is Damian’s Latin progressing?”

“No idea. His manners, however, seem to be taking a turn for the better. I have not heard of any complaint Colin would have about him so far, which is almost a miracle after fifteen hours of private lessons. It looks like Damian made a friend, after all.”

Clark nods, then squints. “You don’t sound too happy about that,” he muses.

“I  _am_ ,” Bruce sighs, crumbling a scone between his fingers, “but knowing what Colin did for money, whom he did it with, and seeing that Damian still won’t stop trying to repress his sexuality… This is just a mess waiting to happen, Clark, and I have no idea why I agreed to this in the first place.”

“Because  _Jason_  asked you to.”

Bruce glares at his friend, earning an apologetic grin in return. Clark knows better than to tease him regarding Jason’s case. They have not spoken about the young man in months, though, so Bruce understands why the journalist would find it an appropriate time to let the wound burn a bit more. The recent changes brought to the family are not the easiest to manage at once, and ripping the doubts off in a sole, definite setting, could do more good than harm at this point. Bruce hates it when Clark is right. (Clark is always right.)

“I lied to you,” Bruce whispers, “when I told you that Jason was no different than the other three.”

“I know,” Clark replies. “It’s okay. You can lie.”

_Must you be this gentle?_

“I am afraid the truth here isn’t worthy of a father.”

“That’s because your standards are too high, Bruce. Parents have flaws—they’re human beings.  _You_  told me so.”

“Perhaps that also was a lie.”

Clark crosses his arms, straightens up, and scowls. It is a rare sight, and if Bruce is honest, he might be enjoying it a little. Clark rarely loses his cool.

“Then tell me the truth,” he demands. “All of it.”

Bruce’s hands feel cold, his fingers numb. Clark loves him. Clark  _loves him_. Bruce has to remember this, has to think back on the night he cried for hours on end, naked and drunk, on this man’s shoulder. There is no other secret he kept from Clark, ever, from his fear of blinding lights to his lack of sexual drive. He prays that Clark’s patience can stand some more of  _him_.

“I am glad that Jason never got to live with us.”

Clark studies him for a few seconds before he nods, slowly, like a sign of understanding. He uncrosses his arms so he can take another scone, brushing Bruce’s fingers in the same movement. After a short silence, he probes:

“Can you elaborate?”

Bruce wishes someone would knock on the door, in this instant, but he knows that Clark would never give up now, so he’d rather get this over with. He prays and begs and  _pleads_  in silence, until he is certain that outside forces will soften the blow in case this relationship wouldn’t prove strong enough to move past Bruce’s least noble doubts this time.

“I never took Dick in. Not  _really_. It was never the plan. It only looked like it because lawyers, CPS, and the media got involved, but it was not about him back then. He was not a person; I adopted an  _idea_. It was about a wrong I thought I could right, and it doesn’t matter how much I grew to love him as a son after some time. He  _is_  my son—no doubt about that—but this fact spelled itself out late. Later than Jason.”

Clark leans back on his chair, moves his right foot up until it is resting on Bruce’s left thigh. He is wearing his Nyan Cat socks, the ones Bruce brought him back from Akihabara a couple years ago. There is a loose thread at the helm, which the billionaire focuses on, playing with it so not to back down nor to have to look his friend in the eye.

“Tim asked me to become his father. He was one of Dick’s best friends, and in such a dark place back then that I didn’t find it in me to turn him down. Damian was born from the worst part of my life, and I could have ignored him, but no decent man would have left him with his mother after seeing just how much hatred she was putting him through. It was duty—always duty. It was easier to learn to love Damian, because he came last, and in the meantime I had finally started to understand the difference between a mentor and a parent. But with Jason… I don’t know, Clark. I was  _always_  his father, right from the start. I looked at him standing there, in Gotham General, with his tired eyes, his three layers of clothes, the cuts on his fingertips; and I thought: ‘ _at last, we’ll soon be home_ ’.”

This is the closest to admitting the entire truth Bruce has been in years, to himself and to somebody else. He realises how bad it all sounds now. When he looks up to meet Clark’s gaze, he expects disgust and anger, distance and disbelief; but Clark is smiling, his expression tender, as though Bruce were the centre of his galaxy and no wrong doing could ever change this gift.

“Must you always be so hard on yourself?” he asks, sadness briefly marking his features. “Bruce, the boys love you like a father because you  _are_  their father. Not dismissing your feelings or the whole Jason situation here, but you never acted as anything but a parent from their perspective, and it is all that matter. You helped them grow and devoted yourself to keep their spirits high. You jumped into damaging moral and legal fights to ensure that their lives would be as complete and comfortable as possible. You maintain artifices and iron walls to defend them in the middle of depressive episodes, so they can continue to thrive regardless of your struggles. You keep honest about that and make it possible for them to be as emotional as they need. They know it. I see it. Perhaps Jason is different indeed, and to love him—and him loving you—was so natural and immediate that it drowned you both, and that’s the reason you two cannot reach closure. Perhaps you truly feel like you’ve spent ten years living with Dick before you finally considered him a son. But trust me, Bruce, the kids didn’t see that and will never think of it this way, because it never showed— _you_  never let it show. Please learn to treat yourself with more patience and kindness.”

Bruce stays silent for a bit, bringing his hands closer to Clark who holds them instantly after he let his right foot drop back to the ground. Bruce takes a deep breath and bites the inside of his cheeks. His chest is but knots and sore places, his voice difficult to raise enough to be heard.

“I have given up on him, Clark. I don’t hope anymore. I say that I do, but that’s another lie. I cannot let Dick or Tim know that I have abandoned the idea of Jason as an official part of the family, for they love him so much, they’d never forgive me. I just can’t take rejection anymore, and now  _I_  am rejecting  _him_ , and this is  _unfair_.”

Clark sighs, concern apparent in his posture and on the corner of his lips. He shakes his head and squeezes Bruce’s fingers, leaning forward over the desk.

“Ask him again,” he says, his tone decided and as serious as the day Bruce told him to lose his number. “I know how much it hurts you every time he says ‘ _no_ ’, but that situation cannot go on. It’s not only unfair—it’s  _unhealthy_. Besides, don’t you think that mentoring Colin is giving Jason an idea of how you’ve felt when it all started? From what I understand of their relationship, it began on a whim and because Jason could not let this kid go, much like you couldn’t let Jason go. Like you  _can’t_  let him go. Jason is an adult, Bruce. His pain was old to begin with, but in six years, he abandoned most of his anger and allowed himself to be young because  _you were here_. He knows—he  _must_  know by now—that there is no denying who you are to each other. Please hope. Ask him again, and hope he’ll come to you.”

Bruce doesn’t ask ‘ _what if we fight instead?_ ’, because a crushing part of him wants to fight. Divide, sew back again.

“Alright,” he half-heartedly agrees. “You win. I’ll ask him.  _Truth_.”

Clark nods. Neither of them move nor speak for a minute, until Clark lets go of Bruce’s hands to pour some milk in their cups. Bruce feels exhausted. These talks always take a toll on him.

“It’s okay,” Clark sighs. “You don’t have to stay awake. You’re the boss here, after all.”

“I can’t just cancel meetings whenever, Kent.”

“Sure you can.”

“I have  _manners_.”

Clark scoffs. “You called me an unsophisticated farm boy and criticised my underwear not even ten minutes after we woke up in my flat for the first time.”

“I also blame you for Dick’s lack of fashion sense.”

“You pompous  _jerk_.”

Bruce can feel his face morphing into an expression of gratitude, something raw and true. Clark has for long been the missing link between him and a sense of emotional safety, well before the boys made it obvious that Bruce was loved beyond the limits of his understanding. There is little the journalist has not seen of the billionaire by now, from the invisible anxiety to the physical harm Bruce wishes he had avoided sooner in his life; and, as the seams had come undone, Clark has stitched back together everything Alfred and Julie had not been able to mend before. Bruce still cannot fathom how he ever managed to stand up in years past. Perhaps there was no warmth nor air until  _Clark Kent_ , not a day spent awake and aware enough to feel or listen to anything worth holding onto more than a few hours at a time. But Bruce is okay with that.

“Thank you,” he breathes out.

Clark beams at him, nods, finishes his coffee. He then leans back on his chair again and interlaces his fingers.

“Now,” he sing-songs, “ _Little Shop of Horrors_ , in six weeks, in Metropolis.”

“No.”

“Julie is coming.” (Bruce raises an eyebrow.) “And  _I said_  ‘ _please_ ’.”

Bruce groans. Clark snickers. Their feet are still touching.

 

* * *

 

 

“Quot fratres habes?”

Colin talks with his hands, and it is distracting. Damian has a thing for people’s hands, for what they can do, for the art they project. There is a possibility that he is hoping for Colin’s to trace and colour golden paths on his skin, or to tear his ribs apart and keep his beating heart warm against these porcelain palms.

Not like Damian would ever admit to that. He is content with just watching.

“Damian?”

He hates it when Colin sounds worried. It is so genuine, so constant, a perfect mimic of the care and safe spaces Dick has always made a point to build around the people he loves. Something Damian too easily latches onto.

“Tres habeo,” he answers.

Colin’s smile is lovely, messing up with Damian’s ability to take in enough air. They have been studying for less than three hours, locked in Bruce Wayne’s office where Colin now leaves old notebooks, his own mug, a spare charger for his phone. Damian finds it comforting. He is almost certain that he can call Colin a  _friend_ , at this point, at least as far as he understands what the term embodies. They spend time together, are polite to each other, and even trade bits of personal trivia on occasion. That much Damian also does with Maps and Maya during orchestra practice, but, unlike them, Colin also has his  _number_. They exchange evening texts about food, art, and the kids at St Aden’s. Damian can barely believe this is happening at all. This social experiment is working, and it is frightening and confusing and sweet.

It doesn’t help, or maybe it  _does_ , that Colin seems at ease with the Wayne heir’s stolen stares and probably— _shamefully_ —obvious interest in something  _more_ , something best left unsaid if this relationship hopes to survive the winter. Damian knows. He thinks Colin knows, too. They keep their hands busy holding pens and rulers, or curled into tight fists made to fight, to protect. There is no opponent but each minute they share.

And perhaps it is because he is his first male more-than-acquaintance his age, or because he is ridiculously expressive, but Colin is the only human being Damian has been able to sketch in weeks. Burnt sienna paint and sanguine pencils became scarce on his desk, the pigments now trapped on canvases—freckles on Colin’s skin, bright shades in his wild hair.

“ _Damian_?”

Colin leans forward, biting his bottom lip, looking somewhat guilty as he asks:

“Sorry, was it… Was it the question?”

“No,” Damian sighs. “Just spacing out, is all.”  _An occurrence, when you’re around_.

“Are you sure? I didn’t think this through beforehand…”

“No, it’s alright.” He puts on a small smile to temper Colin’s visible concern. “Jason  _is_  my brother. It’s not a secret, nor a lie. Please don’t worry about it.”

Colin nods. “Okay.”

“Can we take a break? Or call it a day?”

Damian always uses this diversion when his thoughts wander too close to the mental door leading to his mother’s voice, to the words she spoke about his infatuations and every other wrong step he ever took since infancy. He is not ready to confront any part of it yet. From the other side of the desk, Colin is looking straight into his eyes, confusion and worry hardening his traits.

“Jason told me he would pick me up for GED prep around four,” he says, glancing at his watch, “which is in less than thirty minutes. We can stop the lesson now, and I can text him that I’d be getting home by myself.”

“I don’t mean for you to leave,” Damian counters, fast and needy.

Colin thinks about it for a bit, closes his notebook. Licks his lips.

_There are devils out there and you’d make them kneel and pray._

“I can stay.”

Damian has to be extra careful not to smile too eagerly at the reply. Colin’s grin says just as much. They clear the desk in silence, like they always do at the end of each lesson, gathering their pens and books on one side and leaving their empty mugs on the other. Damian focuses on Colin’s left hand, on these fingers twisting and entwining in the redhead’s efforts to regain the full mobility he lost while burdened with the cast. Colin is always quick to dismiss questions about his health, be it physical or mental; and it is alright, for there is so much Damian is itching to know, he can formulate other queries in a heartbeat.

“Can I ask you something really personal?”

Colin recoils, just a little, just enough for Damian to be even more prudent with the tone he uses. He has long understood that his father’s repetitive inability to assess the measure of Jason’s instinctive mistrust has been the starting point of countless fights. To Damian’s relief, however, Colin seems more inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt.

“I guess, yes.”

“Do you ever wish someone would adopt you?”

The redhead opens his mouth, then closes it, in hesitation. Damian doesn’t know if he should retract the question or give further details about what he meant by it, what he hopes to find out about  _Jason_  through another orphan’s perspective. It may be foolish to believe the two young men’s respective situations to be the same. It may be  _rude_. But Damian needs answers and honesty like he needs air, and Colin is all of these things—and some.

“No,” comes the reply. “Or maybe  _yes_ , a long time ago. I’ve been considering St Aden’s as my family for years, though, so whatever remained of that wish faded away. I’m good where I am. ‘Sides, I’m too old now.”

Damian bites his tongue. ‘ _Tim was fourteen,_ ’ he wants to say. ‘ _Cass was seventeen. Jason was your age._ ’

(Jason is older now. Jason never said ‘ _yes_ ’.)

“I don’t think age should be an issue,” Damian whispers.

Colin gives him an odd look, something lost between uneasiness and  _pity_.

“Can we…,” he trails off.

“Of course, yes. I’m sorry, it appears that I hurt you again.”

“You didn’t,” Colin smiles, albeit faintly. “It’s not a question I am used to be asked in general, so I don’t have a rehearsed answer. I’ve been living at St Aden’s for about eight years now. Before that, I stayed with various foster families, but nothing long-term, let alone adoption plans. Things are alright at the convent, and I will likely remain there until I hit eighteen. It is rare enough in the system to stay in the same place for years, so I consider myself blessed, even more so when the nuns are so kind to me and accepting of who I am. I used to fear that they’d demand I move out, but they chose to support me instead, and I couldn’t have prayed for more. That’s why I don’t wish for anyone to adopt me now, for at this point, it’d be a waste of a potential good home for someone who needs it far more than I do.”

When Colin falls silent, Damian nods, taking long breaths so to resist the urge to ask the redhead whether he believes Jason thinks about adoption the same way; whether Colin understands the emotional value of a  _name_. This relationship should not be about the family—for  _once_. Damian is not certain that he has the right questions in store.

“Why would they ever demand you go away?”

Colin chews on his tongue for a few seconds, bringing his hands closer to his chest, studying Damian with attention as if an assessment of sorts was in order before he can form an answer. After a while, he drops his hands on his lap, keeping his gaze up.

“Because I’m gay,” he says.

And it sounds all too collected, natural, like it’s not important, not a  _problem_ , not something to keep undisclosed while living with a bunch of nuns.

While being Damian’s private teacher.

“I thought you guessed,” Colin adds.

Damian’s heart skips a few beats. A blush is spreading from his chest to his cheeks as he struggles to keep his voice steady.

“How could I?”

Colin’s expression changes to something oscillating between surprise, concern, and a hint of disbelief.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I assumed you… It’s… I don’t hide it.”

“Why not?”

Now the redhead looks upset, horrified, reminding Damian of that one time a couple years ago when he told his father he wished he could be ‘ _at least bisexual, so to have an escape door_ ’. The sadness and rage that marked Bruce’s face that day have been haunting the teen since.

And that is how Damian knows he might have fucked this friendship up.

“That was incredibly rude of me, Colin, I… I’m sorry.” He sounds so weak. “I’m  _really_  sorry.”

“I can see how you look at me.”

Damian freezes. Colin is serious. His otherwise neutral voice just made a point to carry the annoyance and the pain and the incredible tenderness dotting this truth bomb. Time and Damian are standing still, but not in sync. There is a breach in the boy’s throat and it’s Colin, all Colin, digging deeper in an attempt to free raw words the green-eyed kid would never let slip past the tip of his tongue.

“I know when you want to touch. I don’t mind. Your eyes are kinder than theirs, so I let you stare. I  _don’t mind_. And you can lie to yourself, and I’ll pretend I don’t see it, but I already have a big enough case of internalised homophobia to deal with on my own, and that— _that_  I mind. That I struggle with too much. I don’t need—nor will allow—you imposing yours to me.”

He said it in one breath without breaking eye contact, without letting his voice crack. The quivers of his shoulders translate stress and guilt more than anger by now.

Damian wants to cry, to yell, or perhaps to get up and push the redhead on the floor, and kiss, and scratch, and wound, and love. He wants to tell Colin that he is wrong, even if it’s a lie, even if Jason won’t forgive. Instead, he pauses, and thinks, and  _thinks_. About Richard, and how they drifted apart. About Tim and his struggles. About their father’s words, that one night Damian would not let go of his arm.

‘ _Honesty should always start with you, son_.  _To yourself, and about you._ ’

He thinks about Jason and how much the man hurt him. How much he is  _hurting_ himself. Damian must appear as disoriented as he feels, for Colin’s feet lightly nudge his, under the desk. There is no pity nor wrath on the orphan’s face anymore, his freckles veiled under a faint shade of red now that he seems to have cooled down completely.

And just as Damian is starting to believe that he will soon have to abandon the very idea of a human connexion, Colin decides to speak, to mend, his tone the warm echo of truth and indulgent gospels Damian longs to kiss hello.

“You don’t have to be scared.”

And the teen wonders: of what? Of  _whom_? But Colin leaves this part out, and the conversation dies.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dad?”

Bruce looks up from his laptop to meet Tim’s eyes. It is barely four o’clock and the dim light of the patio makes it difficult to read the young man’s face. His posture, however, is unusually defensive, sending chills down the billionaire’s spine.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk about Jason?”

 _No_.

“Of course.”  _Please don’t_.

“You have to adopt him.”

Bruce instantly feels the sting of the request. He sighs, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose before he shuts down and pushes the laptop further to his right on the coffee table.

“Tim…”

“ _Please_. We’ve waited long enough. He needs it. We all do.”

“You know that there is nothing I want more than to adopt him.”

“But does  _Jason_  know that?”

Bruce wonders. He is afraid to find out. It has been a while since he messaged Jason simply to tell him that he loved him, that he is proud of everything the young man became, of what he made of his life.  

“I hope so,” he weakly says, “for if not then it means that I have failed to show him just as much love and support I am more than willing to give, and that is a problem.”

“Love and support aren’t a  _name_.”

Bruce bites his tongue to remind himself not to be harsh to Tim when the boy seems so angry to begin with. It doesn’t undermine his stress.

“This particular matter is not something I’d like to discuss with anyone but Jason himself,” he trails off.

Tim glares at him, but doesn’t reply. He takes a step forward, drags a chair closer to the table, and sits on it so he can face his father. When the silence rings on for too long, Bruce attempts to dissipate the tension.

“He came to visit you during your last episode, didn’t he?” (Tim nods.) “Did something out of your usual routine happen that day?”

Alfred is walking down the hallway on Bruce’s left. The butler barely glances at the pair, his expression cautious, before he disappears. Always the discreet one. Bruce can tell that Tim is mentally reliving Jason’s visit—or what he can remember of it anyway.

“He was distraught”, he begins, “and he just…”

He stops mid-sentence, shakes his head, and leaves it at that. Bruce cannot stand to see how exhausted inside his son looks in this moment. The youthful softness of his face, although physically unchanged, does not show through the worries and the ostensible need for something good to happen. His voice is almost too thin to reach Bruce’s ears.

“He cannot keep this name.”

Bruce offers him a small smile in sympathy. “It is for Jason to decide.”

Tim shakes his head once more. His piercing eyes staring deep through Bruce’s, he whispers:

“ _Willis_  Todd killed my father. Jason doesn’t deserve the guilt.”

Bruce’s lips are dry, his lungs emptying fast. No one in this family ever talk about how they met Jason. The media does it enough, twisting the story until it sounds  _oh-so-good_ , until sixteen-year-old  _Todd_  uses Jack Drake’s death to gain a spot in Bruce Wayne’s bed. And that is why they keep silent. They remember in private. They need the truth and words cannot help this one case, for reminding themselves of what triggered this twist of fate has oftentimes proved a waste of everyone’s energy, an easy way to start fights and to suffer anxious days. It made their light shine wan, dirty veneer over the wound, trapping the harm and sealing it there. It made Bruce  _insane_.

“Dad…”

“I  _know_ , Tim. I know. There never was a day these past six years that I haven’t wished for Jason to be a legal part of this family. But you know that the situation is more complicated than saying ‘ _yes_ ’, having tea, and signing a few papers. The issue goes way deeper than the way we all met. Jason has a past, he is still hurting, and we have to accept that our love cannot always be enough to help him overcome distrust.”

“But Jason trusts us.”

“He doesn’t do  _family ties_.”

Tim seems even more frustrated. Bruce gives him a moment to collect his thoughts, then slides his right hand across the table to catch the young man's fingers. The squeeze he receives in return is as painful as desperate, like a scream for reassurance over reason.

But Tim is twenty years old now, an adult; and Bruce understands that he cannot keep lying to his grown-up sons anymore.

“I do not have the strength to take care of the three of you while simultaneously managing the hurt Jason’s rejection puts me through each time I ask him to officially become my son. Your  _brother_. And this is selfish and consequential, but I have run out of ways to cope, and if I don’t protect myself first for once, just this once, then I will fall. This house will fall. Right now, the only way to buy all of us some time to think things over is for me to pick a side to care about—you three, or Jason. It cannot be both. I  _tried_  to deal with both. Please trust me when I tell you that I hate this situation just as much as you do.”  _If not a thousand times more_.

The pressure Tim is applying to Bruce’s hand slackens a little, although he keeps his grip on it. He looks about to say something he knows to be unpleasant; mutters:

“Jason believes that you don’t want to adopt him anymore.”

Bruce winces. “Now, that’s…”

“He told me so himself.”

Bruce's heart is too small for being this heavy. Has it really come to this? How  _badly_  did he fuck this up?

“This isn’t true,” he urges. “This will  _never_  be true.” When Tim shudders and drops his head down, Bruce adds, his tone lighter: “I'll text him, alright? I’ll ask him to come over one of these days.”  _A deep, deep breath_. “I’ll talk to him about the adoption again.” The pressure on his hand is back. “But this cannot go on, Tim. It has to be the last time. I can’t ask him anymore.”

“Please don’t say that.”

There isn’t a lot else to say but things Tim is not ready to hear yet, things Bruce might forever lock away from his sons. After neither he nor the young man speak for a while, the billionaire stands up and circles the table, helps Tim up before he gives him a tight hug. Tim returns it at once. His small frame pressed against Bruce’s strong body hides an ocean of endurance, love and determination, pooling somewhere on the back of his mind so bright, the tip of his touch so soft, his determination firm; and of this, Bruce is convinced. He knows not to worry too much about this one son. He kisses Tim’s hair and tightens the embrace, just a second, before he releases his hold and takes a step back, however keeping a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“I will talk to your brother.”

“Thank you.”

They stay like this for a minute, in the calm around them. Bruce’s watch indicates four thirty when he asks:

“Do you want to watch some TV series with me while we wait for Damian to come back? Dick is probably hanging out in one of the rooms upstairs, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind joining us.”

“It’s like he never left, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think he’ll ever leave.”

Tim grins. They find Dick in Jason’s bedroom, where he is looking for something to read. They gather in the living room to watch some old  _Poirot_  movie and are later joined by Alfred, whose accent is gently mocked the entire time the film plays. An hour later, when he comes home, Damian doesn’t greet any of them and goes straight to bed, not to be seen again for the night. Just this once, Bruce lets it pass.

 

* * *

 

“So, what happened?”

Colin is fidgety, trembling from what looks a lot like rage and overwhelming grief. He is a mess and Jason knows exactly who to blame. There is no way the kid could concentrate on his GED goals tonight, so Jason opted for a car ride in the city instead. The traffic is terrible, which at least gives them the opportunity to talk. Jason is positive that he’s never seen the redhead this agitated, and that is counting the day they stopped by Planned Parenthood a couple months ago to get Colin tested, including all the coercion, bargaining, and outbursts that visit caused.

“We were talking about adoption and the fact no one ever adopted  _me_.” Colin’s voice quivers—from what exactly, Jason still cannot tell. “My homosexuality came up in the conversation.”

Ah, there it is. As tricky as Jason feared.

“And what did Damian say?”

Colin’s plain grey sweater is too large for him, but not warm enough. His lips are a bit blue, and it is alarming in Jason’s eyes. Still, the man will not let this conversation go until the kid admits to what  _really_  caused the fight.

“I think he insulted himself more than he insulted me.”

Jason acquiesces. No need to have witnessed the incident to know as much.

“Told you Damian is struggling with that.”

“You did.” A long pause, two red lights, and then: “I’m sorry, Jason.”

“Come on, now…,” the man sighs, soft and patient. “Please relax, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Colin bites his bottom lip, sending the man uneasy glances. He shifts on the passenger seat, guilt apparent in his posture. His voice sounds a bit coarse when he mutters:

“Damian wants to touch me.”

Jason is lucky that another red light appears in front of him, for he was about to hit the brakes anyway. He turns his head to face the redhead, whose expression is marked by a mix of too many emotions at once. When the light turns green, Jason is already reviewing their surroundings to assess where the nearest quiet spot to park the car would be. His limbs are restless. There’s no safety in his driving. A few streets later, Colin goes on, lower and lower:

“He looks at me like they do, only not as bad. Far from bad. He doesn’t want to  _take_  the way they do, like he’s willing to give, and I get the feeling that he would hear a ‘ _no_ ’. He’s just… interested, I guess. In me. Until today I thought that I’d be fine with that.” Colin looks up to the sky, in search for a god to help him carry on. “But today he hurt me, and he spoke one too many lies. So I told him that I know what the way he stares at me means. That was a mistake.”

Jason stops breathing for a few seconds, getting a tad too worked up and lightheaded to keep on driving by now. He doesn’t comment on the kid’s confession, and instead gets them a couple blocks further through narrow alleys until he finds a parking lot nearby a closed minimart. Here, he stops the car. Colin is staring at his shoes.

“You’re upset,” Jason states.

The redhead wipes his eyes—tears or blurry vision. If the rules were not so strict, Jason would take him to his flat, cook him a warm dinner, and make sure that enough sleep and care get through this broken system. Rinse and repeat, until it’s engraved deep.

Of course, that cannot happen. The system, the nuns; Colin’s illegal shit, maybe not yet left in the past. Jason often wonders if he is part of the problem—one more fear he doesn’t need.

“Maybe,” Colin begins, shaking his head. He cannot find his words for a while. “I guess Damian is hurting. So he hurt me, too.”

“That’s usually how hurting works,” Jason says. “It is the worst part of it—to hurt others. It stays with you. It sucks.”

Colin mules it over for some time. Jason doesn't feel like driving again for now. He is tired and afraid of the growing incompatibility between the two teenagers.

“He asked me why I wouldn’t hide that I am gay.”

Jason groans. “ _Rude_. Sorry, kiddo. I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” Colin yelps. “Please, Jason, don’t…”

“I _have_ to,” the man cuts in, trying to keep his tone composed despite the exasperation. “Listen, Colin, I am really proud of you for standing up for yourself, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t fight for you anymore—do you hear me? Besides, Damian needs a reality check, once in a while. You’ve seen how the family being too careful with him on the matter has affected his judgement and overall treatment of people.”

Colin glares at him—part fear, part indignation. Jason knows all too well that the frown on the kid’s face means that he could lose the opportunity of a conversation if he does not give in to Colin’s every demand. He groans in annoyance. Compromising is not his strong suit.

“Alright,” he concedes, gritting his teeth. “Okay, _I_  hear you. I won’t confront Damian about what happened today, however if some bullshit of this kind ever shows up again, you must call me immediately. Understood?”

Colin nods, averting his gaze. He won’t call. Jason pretends that he doesn’t see the lie, leans back on his seat, and closes his eyes.

He lets the silence sing him to sleep for a minute. St Aden’s is only two subway stations away from the one three streets down, toward the bay. Roy is gone for now, so no one is waiting for Jason at home. And Jason is exhausted. These past four nights, he tried and failed to text Bruce something important, something true,  _‘dad please come pick me up, I’m so damn scared of the dark’_.  He considered filling up as much of the adoption papers as he can, then posting it to Wayne Enterprises for Bruce to complete, like a surprise of sorts. He even hoped to bring himself to drive to the Manor in the middle of the night, like he did that one time he just  _had_  to forgive Bruce, had to learn how to trust again; like when he was seventeen and already heart deep into the Waynes’ affection.

But he did none of these things. He is  _so damn scared_. He ignored Tim’s texts last night. He went to class in the morning. He went to work in the afternoon. His need for rest is dismal.

“I am upset because Damian might have a point.”

Jason opens his eyes, sends Colin a troubled glance.  _Not a good start_ …

Colin hesitates, then elaborates with: “If I wasn’t gay, then maybe…”

He does not finish that thought. He is falling apart, right here and now, and Jason is starting to doubt that he can be of help this time—or at all. Although he has a thousand answers planned for the million questions he assumed could come up, this one included, it might not be enough to protect Colin from himself.

The kid turns his head toward the window and covers half of his face with his left hand, a motion the librarian learned to expect each time they start fires at the door of the distressing ideas Colin feels compelled to live with. Jason drags in a long breath.

“What got you on the street is independent of your sexual orientation, Colin. Necessity can trump attraction, feelings, and egos. You’d be surprised at the number of straight dudes going down on other men ’cause rent is due and love is cheap.”

Colin doesn’t react. There is no indication that he even registered what Jason just said, so the man tries something else.

“Can I touch your arm?”

“ _No_.”

There is so much resolve yet so much fear in this single word, like a broken plea coming straight from the kid’s core. Jason aches at the sound.

“Very well.” He waits two or three minutes, until he is positive that Colin’s mood is somewhat stable, and muses: “So you  _are_  attracted to men.”

Colin swallows a lump in his throat, then exhales, letting his shoulders drop to allow his muscles to relax. His face is blank, his motions slow as he scratches his left arm again.

“I used to be,” he replies.

“And now?”

Another glance to the sky.

“Now I am upset with your little brother, and I fear the touch of men and kisses and speaking the truth.”

Jason prefers not to reply to this. His phone is buzzing on the back seat, the vibrations coupled to the short melody he assigned to Bruce’s number. He exhales in defeat. He was not even able to contact the man first, in the end, to call him  _dad_  repeatedly, often enough for Bruce to understand the wish implied.

“Do you think God will forgive me?”

There are two conversations going on at once in this car, and Jason is having a hard time juggling from one to the other.

“Do you  _want_  to be forgiven?” he whispers.

Colin remains silent, a moment, before he catches Jason’s hand and digs his nails through the skin. The librarian nods, just nods, and avows:

“We will work on that too. As often as you need. We’ll get you back to steady grounds.”

To his surprise, Colin acquiesces, gaze still wandering away. On the backseat, Jason’s phone receives another one of Bruce’s texts. Two or more in a row are never a good sign.

“Damian needs help,” Colin whispers.

 _The kid first, Jay. Not Bruce_ — _not now. The kid first._

“Indeed he does, and he’ll get some. He’ll be okay. We won’t let him fall.”

 

* * *

 

The flesh he is touching is wild fire and sharp knives, maiming his heart more than Damian ever thought it possible. Maps shivers between his arms. Her smile is sweet, her breath short, her fingers unzipping his pants.

He only prays that this would stop.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm sorry to post so late... I hope you'll enjoy the chapter regardless (I dub it _'Conversations'_ ), particularly the third part. 
> 
> As usual, thank you all for reading this, it really means a lot. Please leave a comment if you have time, I'd really like to hear your thoughts about this story!  
> Best wishes~

The stairs are a monster, and Damian fears monsters now. He used to laugh at the thought. He woke up this morning and things broke,  _he_  broke, the measure and effects of what he did with Maps finally hitting him as the time to meet up with Colin is drawing near. Damian hoped to forget. He tried really hard to. The guilt had been creeping from the shadows so far, motionless and quiet, and he pretended not to see, not to  _know_ , not to watch it move at dawn as it poured from the nightmares into the knots in his throat. It is strangling him now. The stairs are a  _monster_.

His watch beeps once—half past. He has been stuck on the tenth step for almost twenty minutes. His grip on the handrail is strong and weak at the same time as he tries to leave for the city. He has to go. He  _wants_  to go. He missed Colin more than he’d ever admit, more than he ever allowed himself to. He assumed he had lost his texting privileges with the redhead, after their fight, so he just cried and prayed that their next meeting would go better, that things could go back as they were. Loneliness became strange, like an untimely memory. Damian spent the past few days wishing the burn on his lips and the cold on his fingertips could be Colin’s fault, like a punishment—a  _prize_ —for having kissed and touched  _this boy_. Just him. He cannot recall having ever wanted such things with anybody else, or not for good reasons anyway; not because he  _naturally_  desired it.

He fucked up.

And breathing is difficult. After a while and a couple of vertigo scares, Damian has to sit on the stairs and press his flank against the wall to keep himself from falling down head first. Falling apart is enough. He counts the seconds between two inspirations, forgets the time a second takes, would be about to cry if he still had the energy to. He thinks he hears steps in the distance, but he cannot trust any of his senses right now. He wants to see Colin. He needs to see Colin. He wishes he’d have the courage to call Maps and tell her it was a mistake, but she’d be hurt, and he likes her, only his body hates her now to the point of betraying him and there is pain, so much pain-

“Damian?”

Tim is walking down the stairs, stopping a couple steps below him, where he kneels. He keeps a hand near his chest, the other hoovering between them, however not getting too close.

“Can you hear me?” he asks. “Can you breathe?” (Damian hesitates, glances at him, then nods.) “Okay.”

Of all people, the teen wishes  _Tim_  weren’t the one finding him like that; but, with Alfred working in the garden, his other brothers somewhere in town, and his father at the office, the only other living things that could have come to him otherwise were his pets. Damian closes his eyes, grabs his messenger bag in an automatic motion, presses it against his chest like a shield. He forces himself to calm down, with poor results. He can feel the burn on his skin, everywhere, like a reminder of what is waiting for him at the end of the line, or so his mother said—his mother and her  _ideas_. He cannot even choose between sadness and anger.

Tim sighs, deep and slow, whispering his name. Damian’s eyes snap back open, and he looks at his brother, horrified to see him with a smartphone in hand. He finds that he cannot move, cannot take the device away. His voice is muffled under the stress, requiring more efforts than usual to be heard, and for once he doesn’t care if it sounds like he’s  _begging_.

“Don’t call father.  _Don’t_.”

Tim studies him for a bit, frowning as he assesses the request and the teen’s state at the same time. He eventually sighs again, however now smiling softly, muttering a quick ‘ _it’s alright_ ’ as he looks through his contact list. He raises his hand higher, opens it wide in case Damian would like to hold it. He looks guilty, just a second, when someone picks up.

“Hey, dad.”

Damian whines an almost silent ‘ _no_ ’. Tim moves his free hand up again, until the back of his palm comes to rest against Damian’s left shoulder. He looks and sounds very calm when he speaks again:

“Damian is feeling sick, so I’m afraid he won’t be able to make it to his Latin lesson today. Could you notify Colin? Yeah, I’ll tell him. Don’t worry, it doesn’t seem serious. Alfred will be back soon - I’ll stay around until he does. Sorry for missing the assembly. Yeah, alright. Very well.”

They exchange more details on meetings and matters Damian doesn’t catch, too busy wondering why Tim would ever lie for  _him_. Not that Damian doesn’t know that Tim loves him, because he loves Tim too, but he isn’t certain that he would do the same. (He guesses he wouldn’t.)

“Dad said that you should rest,” the young man says, putting his phone back in his pocket. “He’ll tell Colin about the situation, and he leaves it to you two to reschedule or just skip. I’ll help you get back to your room now, alright?”

 _There are monsters in my room_.

“There aren’t,” Tim whispers, and Damian lets out a sob. “I promise.”

Perhaps the teen believes him, perhaps he is too tired to fight. He is  _scared_  is all he knows. Something is smothering him, robbing him from the air he is almost convinced he has not even taken in. But he’s seen this often enough—with Tim, with their father. A part of him remembers that this isn’t going to last long, that he can breathe, that it will go away. Another one is telling him that this  _is_  the end of the line.

“You’re doing well,” Tim tells him, now tracing circles on Damian’s arm. “It must be very exhausting, I  _know_ , that’s why I think you’d be more comfortable in a bed, if possible taking a power nap some time soon. Don’t worry about anything else today. I’ll stay by your side, at least until I’m sure that you’re not alone in the house. More, if you want me to.”

“Why?” Damian croaks. (He knows why.)

His whole body is quivering, like it would melt if it doesn’t fight. Tim dismisses the question, waits a few more minutes, then gets up and extends both of his hands for Damian to grab.

“Come on now,” he offers. “Not sure I can carry you there, but it’s alright. You can lean on me. We’re only half a hallway away.”

Damian raises his head to look into Tim’s eyes while tears are back in his; he is  _tired_. He gives up the very idea of protest and manages to lift his hands up until they touch his brother’s. A second later he is on his feet, wobbly and dizzy. Tim holds him in place, in  _safety_  for one moment more, before he guides them back upstairs.

 

Damian’s room is bright, brighter than usual, missing curtains in front of the windows and the shutters left wide open. Tim doesn’t comment on it, or on the tightened grip on his arm. He instead gently pushes Damian on the bed, where the teen sits and gets rid of his shoes and gets out of his jacket.

The blankets on his bed are a mess, but he manages to wrap one around himself as he lies down on his side, curling into a ball until his entire body is covered and his eyes disappear behind the fabric. He is angry that Tim lied for him. He is glad that their father does not know the truth. The conflict is pushing his stress level to heights he hoped to avoid today, just today, at least until after his lesson with Colin.

And he still misses Colin so much.

“It might be coming a bit late, Damian, but I am grateful for the new stars you painted on my ceiling.”

Tim’s voice echoes from further away, nearby the windows. When Damian looks above his blanket, the light in the room has significantly dimmed. Tim has closed the shutters almost completely, but he also turned on one of the lamps on Damian's desk, as if he knows that his brother needs at least one source of light at all time now, that he fears the dark, that he is convinced something deadly might be coming for him.

“I guess it's complicated to get up there and paint anything to begin with,” Tim adds, “but mostly you and I rarely see eye to eye. I truly appreciate you trying to show kindness regardless, in your own way.”

He comes to kneel by the bed, smiling at Damian—a gesture so frail, full of concern. The teen cannot decide whether he could use some contact right now or if being touched, be it by his own family, would prove too much to bear. Tim seems in the same situation. He waits for a while before he tentatively brings a hand on the bed, then closer, and  _closer_ ; and Damian welcomes the touch on his forehead with a deep breath, with pain, with sadness and peace and gratitude at the feeling of being anchored in a thousand oceans, not yet able to control the beats in his chest, however cosy and certain that nothing can hurt him right now.

It takes him a long time to adjust. He doesn’t ask Tim to take his hand away, only calms down under the warmth. He feels drained— _sleepy_. His limbs are too heavy, paralysed yet restless.

Tim waits a couple minutes, watching as Damian is slowly falling asleep, then asks:

“Does it happen often?”

The boy hesitates to answer. To  _trust_. They have history, and it seldom stood on the good side. Surely Tim has not forgotten the death threats, the thousand fights, the purposeful use of his former family name, or the hundred times Damian locked himself in his bedroom while the older man was in crisis and it was but them at home. Even in his sleepy haze, Damian in choking on guilt, at everything he did wrong by the brother so eagerly helping him now. He wishes he could make it better.

“No,” he replies. “Not this bad.”

Tim hums in understanding. He lets his hand rest on the teen’s arm, the pressure of his fingers firm.

“Is something scaring you?” he goes on. “Something new?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Damian feels a bubble of anxiety travel from his chest to his throat. Tim must see his discomfort. He moves his hand over Damian’s forehead once more, his respiration more calculated.

“You know we’ll always protect you, right?” he says. “We might not succeed every time, but we’ll always try, each in our own way. We’d never let harmful things come to you.”

There is a lot and there is nothing here; and the knots in Damian's chest tighten, lacing together with panic to pierce his lungs with a dozen bad thoughts, his lips now dry, his heart too wide. ‘ _What if things already came and harmed?_ ’ he wants to ask. Would Tim even have an answer? Damian can’t tell him. Can’t tell anyone. He is ashamed—no matter that he knows that what he did was not technically wrong, that he is allowed to experiment with friends his age, that he would feel better just confessing his doubts and pain already.

But _knowing_ doesn't matter this time. Defeated, Damian scouts closer to the edge of the bed, kicking the cover slightly below his waist. He feels warm—the bad kind of heat. Tim withdraws his hand, just a moment, before he gently presses it on Damin'sarm again.

“I’m sorry that Talia couldn't love you, Damian.  _You_  weren’t the problem.”

Damian opens his eyes, the lids too heavy not to close it right back again. He doesn’t know how he feels. If he feels. Tim carries on, with more and more conviction:

“You don’t have to be afraid.”

Damian is too tired, too lost for this conversation. In less than thirty minutes, the two of them have exchanged what he believes to be more words than they usually do on average in a  _week_.

And Damian missed it. He missed  _Tim_. He never knew him before and he has been missing him always.

“I think you should talk about whatever is scaring you with either a stranger, or with a friend," Tim tells him. "Not with us—we never seem to have the words. You  _have_  friends, I heard. I saw. I’d suggest Colin, because he knows how to shut you up and doesn’t seem like one to take anyone’s BS, and boy, if  _you_  don’t need someone to call you out on your behaviour sometimes…”

Damian would normally get angry, he knows; but Tim’s voice is almost fond, sounds close to what Richard used to sound like when he was talking to and about Damian, before they fell apart. It’s a violence. A melancholia.

“If you won’t talk to a professional, then maybe talk to him. As a friend—which means you’ll have to give back and listen to him if you can. And that’d be a good thing; it would teach you a lot. Colin might be able to help you get new perspectives, and that would be great too, because we’ve been feeding you ours for  _years_ , and it obviously doesn’t connect. Maybe what you need nowadays is a more objective opinion on the problems we have, a vision unburdened by history or  _details_. Without new outlooks on the ‘ _whys_ ’, you can’t find new ways to rise above. Dick and dad might sound like broken records to you by now, as expected since their stance hasn’t changed; but  _you_  have. You are too close to adulthood and to a mental breakdown, these days, and that’s why we worry so badly. It is time you reach out for more help.”

Would Tim suggest the same if he knew the way Damian thinks about Colin? The teen himself cannot tell how he sees this boy. He likes him. He likes his personality, his backtalk, the honesty he can sense in his words—more truths than other people speak, the secrets kept on lockdown instead of covered with lies. He likes Colin’s face and is curious about his body. He wonders how many freckles can fit on the human skin until it is enough, until it is too much; until Colin’s brown eyes ignite with the reflections of it all, setting Damian’s soul alight.

Tim sighs, muttering something Damian can't hear. His mind and muscles are numb, and he is afraid to sleep and wake up alone. He is afraid Tim would permanently  _disappear_.

“Stay,” he pleads.

Tim whispers a swift ‘ _of course_ ’ and adjusts the blanket again. He does not let go of Damian’s hand, and like this, the teen slowly drifts to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Damian never calls. He hasn’t texted Colin for a whole week, either, but in general, he never calls. ‘ _I feel awkward on the phone_ ,’ he once confessed, the blush on his cheeks spreading fast, making Colin blush too. How truthful the Wayne heir was, that day; how hurtful they both were, last week.

Colin regrets that he put Damian on the spot for something the boy is clearly  _scared_  of. That was no more okay than the comments made against him. The truth is that Colin remembers what it was like to struggle with acceptance, to fear the judgement of men and of God, to wonder whether the future still looked as exciting and  _safe_  as before. He knows that he should have been here to help, not to hurt back, because Damian was genuinely sorry when he said he was, tiny and alone in the contemplation of these too many beads of love and expectations flooding from the hollows of his palms, their number always so high that Damian might one day be tempted to drop them all and to step on it one by one, until there’s nobody left to deceive.

And Colin is afraid of this day Damian may snap. He is worried and tired. He just spent the previous evening and night watching over three toddlers who heard a spooky story at school and were afraid a monster could be roaming the convent. They just left for the library where they will stay the entire morning. They asked him to keep an eye on their stuffed animals and a thousand scribbles they insist on calling drawings, all scattered everywhere around the room. Colin doesn’t mind their neediness much. If anything, it gives him a purpose.

He is yet to tell Jason that this situation is growing more and more difficult for him, that he _misses_ his men somehow but is afraid they could be violent if he met them on the street in broad daylight or even within their old established frame, now that he has abandoned them for a while. Jason is keeping his old phone, an effective way to protect Colin from them and from  _himself_. He hopes it will forever be enough.

When ten o’clock rings, he is sitting on his bed with his legs stretched in front of him, his back on the wall, one of the kids’ storybooks open on his lap. He prayed on his knees for over an hour, yesterday, after Bruce Wayne called him to cancel the lesson and informed him of Damian’s state. He prayed because it meant more time away from Damian, from Jason’s world, for small bits of comfort in the middle of the shards. He prayed because he didn’t believe in this supposed illness one bit, although Bruce Wayne seemed to.

He prayed and prayed, and his knees are but bruises and painful bones now as a result. He lost track of time and of things to mend at some point, because everything is crashing down. He misses going out and the men—and is frightened and profoundly hates that he misses going out and the men. Damian lied, or someone else did, either way in the end Damian wasn’t around yesterday, and Colin needs help.  _Damian’s_  help. He is not entirely sure for what or how it would play out, but he wants to see him anyway. He wants to keep Jason near. He’d like Damian to be  _nearer_.

He turns the pages of the storybook without registering more than two sentences at once, when suddenly a knock on the door sends chills down his spine, making him look up.

“Yes?” he calls.

He lifts himself closer to the edge of the bed. The door opens, an angle he cannot see, and two persons come in. The sight leaves Colin stiff, paler than usual. Damian is here, in the flesh, standing behind Sister Gail. The nun looks unusually  _not_  grumpy today, probably because Colin took half of her work charge last night. Damian is wearing his white jacket again, black jeans, his messenger bag; these beautiful eyes of his.

“Someone here for you,” Sister Gail announces, glancing between the two teens. “I’ll check on you two every five or ten minutes.”

Colin believes her. She is one of the few who didn’t take his coming out too well. When she disappears somewhere away, Colin gets off the bed, bites his tongue to repress a whine, and hops between drawings and plush toys to meet Damian. The Wayne stares at him from head to toe. He then straightens up a little, sheepish or uncertain.

“Hello,” he greets.

His voice betrays a strain, muffled sobs or lack of sleep. Colin does not react immediately.

“Hey.” He moves past Damian, awkward and wobbly. “Sorry for the mess,” he apologises, closing the door in silence. “The pre-K kids had a comedian read a horror story at school, yesterday. Drama ensued.”

Damian nods, looking around, inspecting Colin’s room with no visible intention to comment on it. The redhead is glad about this. He cannot even imagine what Damian’s  _quarters_  are like. He suspects that most space is full of art supplies, but that's an easy guess. Damian once told him that he sometimes draws or paints up to eight hours a day.

Focusing back on the situation at hand, Colin mentally slaps himself when he realises that he has not offered the boy a seat yet.

“My bad,” he mumbles. “Please feel free to sit on the bed or on the chair behind the desk. We can also move things around. The rooms here can get very cramped when more than three of us share one.”

Damian thanks him with a small smile, ultimately opting for the bed. Colin goes to sit on the chair, which he turns toward his friend. His  _tutee_.

“Are you feeling better today?” he asks. “Your father told me you were ill.”

Damian joins his hands, too tight, and frowns. There is a lot of fatigue and apprehension on his face.

“Tim lied for me,” he confesses. A pause, then, much lower: “I had a panic attack.”

Colin winces. “Sorry to hear that. I know what it’s like. Got my fair share. I’m glad to hear that you weren’t alone, at least.”

“Yeah.”

They let a silence settles in, but not too long. They both know Sister Gail could be interrupting something important if she does indeed come back to check on them. What matters must come out now. Damian dives in first.

“Whose forgiveness do you ask for when you mess up?”

And that is a good question, one Colin has not thought about enough. Who has he prayed to the most, lately? What does he still believe in? There indeed is a constant in his emergency calls. After all, he assumes that Damian needs concrete answers more than metaphorical ones.

“Jason’s,” he replies. “I used to pray to… something else. Some _one_  else. I’m not sure. Either way, it used to be bigger, stronger than a man; but it wasn’t working out. Some apologies you wanna be sure are heard and answered.”

Damian thinks about it for a while and eventually nods. Colin is under the impression that this question was not about  _them_ , else Damian would not have had to ask, only to apologise. Like he does now.

“I am sorry that I insulted you. And for the  _staring_  too, that’s…”

His discomfort is apparent. Somehow, Colin is relieved that Damian is not denying the staring. Relieved and flattered. Relieved, flattered, and distraught.

 _Some men you cannot have_.

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” Damian whispers.

“I forgive you. Look, Damian, I’d like us to be friends. I really do. But it has to come with conditions, like rules of sort. To  _protect_  us. I don’t exactly understand why you reacted the way you did, and although I know you regret your words, it _did_ hurt me. Fact is that it took me a while to come to terms with myself, to come out and to live with it every day. It’s still new for me too, it was a long journey. I also have way too much going on right now to be ready to deal with outside attacks and denial from my  _friends_.”

He doesn’t want to sound angry. He is  _not_  angry. He is concerned and he wishes that Damian would not be as resigned as he seems now, like he is prepared to hear that their arrangement cannot go on any longer.

And it is difficult to speak truths in general, but Colin just feels overwhelmed today. His anxiety sings too loud.

“The worst thing, though,” he mutters, “is that it made me hurt for  _you_.”

Damian lets out a noise, between a sob and a strangled curse. His guilt looks immense—and Colin feels it too. He does not want the Wayne to be upset, of course, however Damian rarely responds to anything but shock. To dose it is the key.

“I worry about you,” Colin tells him. “You shouldn’t have to feel bad about something good. To love is good. And I am sorry, too, because the way I snapped at you was damaging and uncalled for. You were scared, and I was angry, but as the one further down this road, I should have held back and offered my help, not pushed you down. I hope you can forgive me too.”

Damian frowns, perhaps not certain that he understood correctly. They don’t speak or move for what seems to be enough time for Sister Gail to stop by. (She doesn’t.)

“I like you,” Damian finally says, staring straight into Colin’s eyes. “Not—you  _know_. But I like you. I’m sorry I just seem to hurt you all the time, somehow, all of it because I can’t get my own life and affections sorted out. I don’t think there is anything wrong with you either. At  _all_.” He marks a pause, then adds: "I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

There are steps in the hallway, but they go away soon enough. The boys wait a while more, unsure whether they can speak freely, until Damian confesses in a murmur:

“My father, he…” A pause. “He didn’t want this.  _Me_. Of course he doesn’t care whom I am attracted to, or that I don’t want to help run the company. He doesn’t care because he  _loves_  me. He’s a great dad.” He sighs and lets his gaze wander around the floor. “They  _all_  love me. The Waynes, the Montoya-Kanes. I know this, and I hold onto it tight, but there is a certain  _history_  behind it all. I guess I just don’t know how to get back above ground.”

Colin has no answer to offer, so he just nods. He cannot understand all the notes between the lines, what is unsaid, what he should have heard. He figures these things belong to a set of secrets the other teen does not give him access to yet, and that’s alright. He can accept that. Damian does not  _have_  to tell him everything. He is trembling, Colin notices, so he settles on speaking words of comfort.

“I am scared of many things, too. Different things. It’s alright.”

Damian studies him for a bit, before he smiles at him, something soft and grateful. It is a rare sight, and Colin’s hope goes on a rollercoaster ride again, alternating between happiness and the reminder that he cannot date this boy—or  _any_  boy. He does not _want_ to. Only Jason is allowed to hug him and hold his hand, he decided, because Jason is safe and the closest he has to a _brother_.

“I’m sorry about the lesson,” Damian says. “I will make sure that we pay you anyway.”

“Don’t mind that.” (Colin  _minds_. He just doesn’t want Damian to worry.) “Would you like to reschedule for this week, or do we wait for the next? Or, well…” He tilts his head toward the desk. “Now?”

Damian looks contrite. “Sorry, but I can’t. Our butler is waiting for me outside.”

“Oh.”

Colin is disappointed but tries his best to conceal it. He nods and offers Damian a smile, before he asks:

“Can we text again?”

“ _Yes_.”

A desperate tone does not suit Damian at all. Colin guards himself to comment on that. The other teen turning his head away and biting his lower lip is enough indication that he himself had no idea his reply would come out so fast, so  _hungry_ , laying out other needs in the process. It is as if Damian has just opened a door for honesty to escape through. As if he cannot keep his mouth from speaking truths, all of them too enthusiastic to come out while they can.

“I stare at you because the patterns of your freckles are like faraway star maps, and I find that their various shades match your hair and eyes beautifully.”

Colin’s heart skips then rushes too many beats to count. His chest, throat, and face are afire; no coherent talk can get past the heat. Damian gets bright red instantly, stays very quiet for a few seconds, then he averts his eyes again as he mumbles:

“That was embarrassing to say.”

“That was embarrassing to  _hear_.”

Damian’s blush adds light to his eyes, his smile growing wider despite the visible shame. Colin feels warm in the atmosphere of whatever is happening right now. Tentatively, he half-jokes:

“Perhaps you could teach me more about star maps.”

There is mild horror in Damian’s expression now, a sudden realisation, like he had no idea so far that Colin, too, so often  _stares_. Perhaps he still doesn’t get it. It might be better this way.

He gets up—and Colin follows, surprised by the sudden movement. He is a bit taller than he was when Damian and he first met, he finds.

“I have to go,” Damian says.

“Sure.”

Colin leads the way toward the main door. He does not look at Damian until they reach it, all the while searching for words that could help and comfort his friend a bit more before he leaves. There is no doubt that the Wayne is as much in need of help as Colin is, only a different kind. He does not find anything to say that would sound neutral enough.

Damian places a hand on the door handle. He looks at Colin like he has a million things to say, yet nothing he manages to voice out.

Colin uses the opportunity to push his own doubts away with banalities. “We can meet up any day this week,” he says. “For the  _lesson_. Or we can wait until our next scheduled time.”

Damian nods. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

“Alright.”

They are two feet apart, a distance Colin makes a point to keep so to avoid faux-pas. He prays that his feelings for Damian are a safe topic to talk about with Jason. He prays that Damian will keep safe and be  _prouder_.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Damian Wayne,” he whispers, watching as the other teen takes half a step back. “And I like you, too. Not— _you_   _know_.”

Damian’s respiration is a tad irregular. He tries to hide this behind tiny movements, shifting from one leg to the other, keeping his mouth shut in a thin line. Sister Gail is observing them, further on Colin’s right, from the open door leading to the chapel. He can feel her contempt from where he stands. He focuses on better things when Damian extends a hand for him to shake. The contact is quick.

“Thank you,” the boy says.

As he steps outside, Colin offers him a smile. When the heavy door closes, his mind and heart are a mess. Not even five minutes later, on the line, Jason has to remind him a thousand times that things will be alright, that he will be here soon, and they will talk until all is better. He sounds so convinced.

It hurts Colin so much.

 

* * *

 

Jason once told Bruce that he finds it a bit funny, a bit sad, altogether odd that the billionaire feels compelled to pretend that his office in the Manor is where Thomas Wayne’s used to be. Sure, the place is not without visits; only none of that kind. That’s where the press goes and takes pictures, sometimes. That’s where the family leaves everything frustrating, every report Tim finds boring, every classic Jason dislikes, Damian’s unfinished paintings, the baby care books Dick ended up not needing. It is a place of avoidance, austere and serious, that Bruce gladly skips.

He instead works in what used to be Martha Wayne’s summer room, downstairs, right behind the children’s art room. The space is small but calming. Three of the walls are bare, whereas one side is entirely covered in large plate glass windows framed by heavy purple curtains, opening to the most private part of the garden, away from the gates and the direct rays of the Sun. Bruce had always found the view even more beautiful in the winter, when the fog embraces the trees at the border of the forest where his mother would retrieve footballs for him when he was a child and such weather hit town. Ghosts had scared him for a long time.

He spent years avoiding the room, only to enter it again the day after Dick entered his life, for the boy got lost in the maze of corridors downstairs and wound up in what would later become the art room. Bruce had stayed back after they found the kid, had let Alfred be in charge, and gotten closer to the door at the end of the hallway. He had to stare at it for almost ten minutes before he managed to convince himself that enough time had passed for the ghosts to stay dormant. The same day, he made this room his own.

He kept the furniture as it always was, the balance of beige and blue, the cosy armchair behind the small desk, the cute chairs with the jaybird print scattered here and there; the old and round coffee table in the corner, nearby the door, where Bruce is busy fixing himself a cup of tea. He kept the tea set, too.

He kept the  _humanity_. The drawers behind him, as well as the desk, still contain pictures, books, journals—traces Martha left behind when she last sat in this room to write. Bruce reads her notes, sometimes. He still regularly stumbles upon Dick quoting some of it to the other children, or inventing wondrous adventures out of a simple line, an expandable map the young man calls ‘ _Martha’s Many Many Journeys_ ’—a collection of fake tales he printed hard copies of for every family member to read on Hanukkah, two years ago. Bruce’s pride and love for his son, that day, was as off the charts as it ultimately stayed.

He knows Damian paints scenes from these tales on occasion, for one is in progress on the kid’s bedroom door. He knows that Tim reads it to alleviate the pressure in his mind. He knows that Jason got a tattoo of something out of Martha’s thirtieth journal. What exactly, that he never found out.

He knows that all of this is important and none of it should be to blame, and that’s why he finds it in him to disregard the fact that his mother almost always hid the  _wrong_  away from her journals, the pain she detailed but on free papers Bruce often saw her throw into the hearth before the last drop of ink was even dry. She would watch it as it turned into dust to make sure that nothing would be left of the shadows, and, just like that, these memories disappeared. Bruce can now make peace, and even alliance with this lie, this convenient omission. He learned to accept that those words were never for him to read in the first place, and the moment it stopped bothering him, he understood what his mother’s distorted tales mean  _now_ , to his children, more than the therapy they once were for him alone: it's a soothing spell above the mist, a shield raised against the ghosts. A link between grim pasts and where his boys are wanted now.

 

Jason is sitting on one of the chairs, on the right side of the desk. He is dressed in grey jeans and an ample white sweater, looking tired yet implausibly calm, as if needing temperance and patience a lot more than usual today. He is holding and flickering through the only light blue notebook Martha ever brought. It’s the one Bruce likes the most, for it is full of photographs, in no chronological order.

On most of these, Kate and Bruce are seven and look like brother and sister. Thomas’ gaze on his son is pure affection and awe. Martha has put on silly outfits and pretends to lose a ridiculous shoe as she walks down the main stairs. Kate has no idea how to properly hold a mug.

“I once asked my mom if we could adopt Kate,” Bruce remembers out loud, covering this tiny mistake by quickly drinking his cup of tea—lukewarm by now. He adds: “She laughed and told me that Kate was already family, and that anyway cousins can be like siblings. But being ‘ _like something_ ’ is not exactly  _being_  something, of course, and at times the nuance brought chaos upon us. After my parents died, and because Kate’s father resented mine for that, she and I were kept apart. We were  _only_  cousins.”

He realises that the implications of his words are not lost to Jason. They both know it’s not everything, but it’s not  _nothing_. It is what keeps Bruce up at night. Discussing such matters with the young man is always a bit of a gamble, a predisposition to failure, like a regret in the making. The words Bruce just spoke were also probably poorly chosen—a frustrating occurrence.

To his relief, however, Jason decides to ignore this mistake this once.

“Kate told me,” he says, his voice strained but kind. “She loved your parents. She missed you for years.”

Bruce sighs. “And I missed her, too.” He shuffles through the different chocolates Alfred left by the tea pot, a moment, then carries on: “She used to play stealth games around her father’s house in the middle of the night and would sometimes reach the landline phone, then ring the one I kept right by my bed. She got caught many times, but no punishment ever proved enough to stop her. She's always been so  _stubborn_.”

Jason sneers in playful mockery, carefully putting Martha’s notebook back on the desk. Bruce smiles at him despite the screams inside. He remembers those phone calls. He remembers the long,  _really_  long school days he could barely stay awake through, having spent most of the previous night waiting for his cousin to call. He remembers his uncle Jacob’s curses each time the man found his daughter talking to the enemy, the ‘ _son of a murdere_ r’, the ‘ _shegetz_ ’. He remembers Alfred— _his_  Alfred—getting mad, standing up for them against Jacob on countless occasions, buying Kate and Bruce cell phones the very minute he got the chance.

Truth be told, Bruce always cared very little for his uncle’s constant insults. He had Kate and her unconditional love, her way to never forget him, the warm welcome she never once failed to offer him on every Jewish holiday he for too long had to celebrate with Alfred alone for years. They reconnected completely right after Bruce turned eighteen, then had to wait some more seasons—and two tours abroad for Kate—to live the entwined lives they enjoy now. These past thirty years, Bruce has wished a million times to go back to the day he asked his mother to adopt Kate. He wishes he had  _insisted_. He is still learning to let it go.

“But you’ve got each other now,” Jason reminds him.

“We do,” Bruce agrees. “We’re alright.” A pause, before he asks: “How’s Colin?”

Jason lets out soft sigh. “Colin is… a handful.” His grin, although small, is sweet and sincere. “He’s a good kid. There’s a lot going on in his life, obviously, but he is doing his best.”

“So no more men?”

Bruce tries to keep it neutral. He is worried, of course. Damian is not the social kind nor comfortable with himself, but he remains seventeen and gay and most probably sexual, much like Colin is, and the two  _get_   _along_. Bruce can already see the steep changes in his boy, the conflicts and the questions, the growing gap between his lowest and highest days.

“I can’t confirm for sure,” Jason admits.

“Then what do you believe?”

Jason takes a moment to ponder the question. Bruce gives up on finding anything to his liking on the table, so he leaves his empty cup there before he crosses the room. He sits down in his mother’s armchair, carefully moving the blue shawl away from the armrest to the back of the seat. Jason is barely two feet away from him now. He looks even more in control from here.

“I believe that Colin isn’t entirely done with this part of his life yet although he doesn't break the not going out rule,” he answers, sounding falsely detached, “but there isn’t much I can do for him about it at this stage. It has to be his effort for a bit. I'll bring in more help soon.”

“What if he goes back to the streets sooner?”

Jason stares at him, haggard for a second, frowning the next. Words are silenced on the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t seem comfortable, all of a sudden, as though a screw on the door keeping his confidence together got loose, revealing a glimpse of the darkness behind.

“I came here to talk about  _us_.”

Some words Bruce can take, some he flats out reject. Then, there are Jason’s. Bruce stopped trying to find a way to systematically assess the weight of his son’s words, the raw feelings and the knives and the tenderness, like threads without label hanging down from thin air. Bruce never knows what will fall down on him when he pulls one to his heart. More often than not, he thinks about giving up on this relationship—for a second, just  _one_ , a breath he’d take without the constant fear and the sadness flowing in.

But Jason is the pulse in his veins, the fireflies in his eyes. Without the kid there’d be but the cold and the haze, like Gotham’s bay at midnight, like before the children; like that one morning Bruce fought to wake up in a hotel room in Amman, suffocating on Talia’s perfume and drowning under missing pieces of shameful memories he could barely describe to Clark, months later, between the hollows and the depths. Jason helped him breach the surface. Jason fixed the right cog. Jason was the beacon that set light to the others, to Dick and Tim and Damian, to the sparks of care and self-worth Bruce had been repressing for too long.

And Bruce is  _terrified_. He dreads what Jason came here to say. He remembers his conversation with Tim, knows what he can and cannot realistically balance as responsibilities nowadays, and hates himself more than anything for ever thinking of letting Jason go for good. Jason cannot go. Jason is his son and Bruce cannot believe they’re still stuck in a legal fog, something so petty, when everything else is too evident to be denied.

“I wish I would have let you adopt me when I was seventeen.”

Jason sits very still, making clear efforts to keep looking Bruce in the eye, although it seems difficult. His anxiety is thick enough that Bruce almost feels it wrap around his wrists, effectively forcing him to listen to this conversation. He tries to speak, but he can’t. There is much he wants to say, but Jason is sad and afraid, the words not coming easily to him as Bruce takes the measure of how gone he appears now. It took minutes. It’s usually all it takes. Bruce’s chest is buzzing, his mind alert despite the noise. Jason’s voice is small and shaky.

“Back then, things were… You  _know_  how things were. With Willis, with the system. With Tim, of course. With Damian, too. With  _you_.” He shivers, averts his eyes and chuckles, for half a second, an echo weaved with sorrow. “With you, it was…”

He loses his thought, his breath strangled and his eyes glossy with tears. Bruce is about to reach out, but Jason raises his left hand between them in a stopping motion, drying up his eyes—in vain—with his other hand.

“I’m sorry, it… It happens all the time, lately. It’s inconvenient.”

It isn’t new. Bruce can vividly recall entire months of Jason’s life, three years ago, when the young man’s emotions were constantly all over the map. Somehow, it always looked like the billionaire was the source of most of his meltdowns, the drop pushing him on one or the other side of his balance. At the time, Bruce learned that the safest thing he could do when Jason cried was to wait for the young man to tell him what he needed, what to say, who he allowed around him.

But it seems different today, for some reason. Jason is calmer than Bruce has ever seen him, behind the missing words and the tears, as if he somehow reached a certain level of resolution. Of  _peace_. Bruce knows what it feels like, how too tight a rope it can be; and it’s not necessarily good news and he is even more afraid now, because Jason is  _there_ , perhaps  _believes_  that he has to be there, for Colin’s sake or because he thinks it’s  _time_. Bruce can but hope otherwise.

Jason draws slow breathes in, his expiration inaudible, quietly pushing the bad steps away. When he comes to, straightening up a little, his gaze immediately falls back on Bruce. He smiles at the man, whispers:

“It was always  _you_ , you know? Julie and Renee would ask me if I wanted to see someone, and all I wished to answer was: ‘ _Bruce Wayne_ ’. I didn’t, of course, because it sounded  _wrong_ , because calling you by your name was too big a lie already, and I just couldn’t lie anymore. Spending too much time here with the family was not okay with the system either, to a degree, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with any of these things—let alone with the media. I played coy because I was exhausted and depressed. I was in pain and dealing with things I shouldn’t have had to deal with. Living with Renee felt like the right—and perhaps the  _only_ —moment for me to  _not_  be an adult, to breathe. I needed to breathe.”

Bruce’s head is spinning a little. He cannot come up with an answer that he confidently knows wouldn’t upset Jason enough to undo whatever spell is operating right now, so he just nods, because he gets it, because he has a feeling that this conversation is going somewhere for once. Jason relaxes a little at the gesture. He shifts in his seat to get closer to Bruce and puts both forearms on the desk, his fingers intertwined, his painted nails scratched here and there. He is almost at touching distance. They stay like that for a minute while Jason gathers his thoughts, until he says:

“Everything I struggled and still struggle with, emotionally, I am likely to struggle with some more, maybe my whole life, regardless of the way you and I progress along the line. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay with that  _now_. I’m sorry that it took me such a long time to rise above the wrong done to me, and that it almost demanded from you to suffer the worst of the collateral damage. I’ll never stop regretting that.”

“But it wasn’t just you, Jason.” Bruce leans in to stroke the young man’s left forearm with his fingertips. His limbs are numb and his throat dry. “I was… I  _am_  hurting too. I was always the one that triggered the worst of our fallouts. I failed to understand how crushing your history was, and I misread the person you saw me as at the time. I had this… this  _idea_  of what our relationship was, of what it  _should_  be. Trying to force it upon you was wrong, and I am sorry that I pushed you in corners you weren’t ready to build safe nests in. Please, Jason—you were  _sixteen_  years old.”

The young man frowns, his expression dulled by anger and concern. And  _oh_ , if Bruce knows these eyes, the way they say ‘ _please help_ ’, their intensity this time. There are a thousand more things the billionaire would like to tell him, but Jason is so open with him today that Bruce feels under the overwhelming pressure not to say too much, or not enough, let alone to be dishonest. He has to be without fault.

Jason moves his chair a little, getting even closer when he slides to stand on the edge. Bruce can feel his heat, hears the smallest crack in his voice.

“So what now?”

Bruce cannot tell. He doesn’t believe in leaps of faith and has not forgotten how he intends to protect his family—minus Jason. He feels trapped and betrayed by his lack of power in front of an upcoming series of contemptible events he has allowed the development of up to this day, as they all seem to converge to a common moment of truth he is by no mean ready to face.

But fathers can’t recoil. Bruce has no excuse not to try.

“Right now, like always, I simply  _refuse_  to give up on you, Jason. However I can’t keep on pretending that our situation isn’t  _toxic_. I must protect my children, and this is the most hurtful of all, because I am not including you in this group in this context, which is ridiculous. A lie. This is not how I feel about you, for you  _are_  a child of mine, and you will always be one—as long as you want it to be true. I am sorry that I failed to make it clear and vocal enough that you can come to see me any day, even in decades, to tell me that you want me to legally adopt you, and I’ll say ‘ _yes_ ’ in a heartbeat.”

Jason’s mouth twitches, his stare caught between fear and a hint of what Bruce identifies as disbelief; and it stings. He wants,  _needs_  to be trusted. Jason  _has_  to trust him. This is probably the first and the last time the billionaire will admit to this decisive weakness of his, because he is  _dying_ , strangled by this limitless love he can’t openly give, gutted by each stolen moment Jason and he never got to live as father and son because of their too many fights, of the media, of a  _missing_   _piece_   _of_   _paper_.

After a long silence, Jason drags in a deep, very deep breath. He looks in pain and thinking and  _thinking_  and perhaps realising just now that they are back to level zero, to a time of faith more than reason. When he slides his left hand in Bruce’s direction, the billionaire catches it by reflex. He regrets it for a second but is unable to let it go. His pulse is bouncing too fast. For a while, Jason studies the space where the skins touch, getting quieter and quieter, slowly turning his face away.

And Bruce prays—‘ _Say something. Please say something._ ’

“I just want you to be my dad.”

And it is so low, mumbled above tears, so full of unbounded desperation and love under the veil of apathy coating the sound to numb the pain, that Bruce is not certain he heard it right for a moment. He bends forward to be able to look Jason in the eye, and the young man stares back at him, no edge nor certainty in his gaze. He seems about to say something, the hesitation stretching for a long time. He is still holding Bruce’s hand—and it  _hurts_ —and taking shorter and shorter inspirations as seconds fly.

Bruce just waits. He’d wait for years.

“Please adopt me.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hei! It's been a while... I'm very sorry. 2017 was unkind.  
> Experimenting with something new here, back to the normal format next time. Comments would be extremely appreciated, I'm already grateful for each of them in advance! I tried and I'm trying, but maybe it was/is not enough. Please tell me, so I can be better. I promise that whatever happens, I will finish this story.  
> Thank you and once again very sorry that you had to wait for so long o(_ _)o I hope you'll enjoy this chapter nonetheless ❀

Colin knows, thinks he knows the exact moment when things were put in motion and started to change toward and against enough directions at once for him to ultimately lose grip on his feelings, give in to panic, and leave St Aden’s tonight. He doesn’t know what could have talk him out of it, what could have helped him feel safe, what he forgot to say. He didn’t _want_ to leave.

He fucked up. He fucked up.

 

* * *

  

“I love boys, too.”

It was queer to hear Damian talking so low, so unsure. It sounded misplaced, although closer to the truth. Colin shivered at the confession and took a moment to reflect on it.

It was a lot. It was a _key_. Damian, that afternoon, had wormed his way out of a rusty cage of shame through fragile words dragged away from a fear so immense, so taxing, like a prayer that had spent years in hiding in the dark and wasn’t aware yet that the war was over, that it could come out at last.

Colin caught sight of the truce; it looked infinitely green.

“I know,” he replied. “How does it feel?”

“It needs work.”

Colin ignored every thought pushing him to offer some form of help with said work. He hoped that his friendship would be enough. He felt relieved when the lesson stopped, for each time his eyes met Damian’s after this exchange, a voice whispered in his ear: “ _rich boys need not harvest rotten fruits_ ”; and it got to him. It made him bitter. His anxiety reached new heights for days and he hid it from Jason, who thankfully seemed too wrapped up in his own problems to engage in any sort of confrontation.

 

Two weeks went by slowly. The first lesson was uneventful, and the second started just like this too. Damian barely spoke during the first hour, receiving text after text from Timothy—“ _father hasn’t been well, we’re handling some of his files_ ”—while simultaneously trying to concentrate on the Latin grammar and vocabulary test-like paper Colin had prepared for him.

Colin didn’t know for sure how to talk to him anymore. It had always been challenging, yes, but since the formal coming out, even their texts had become cautious. He wanted desperately for things to be as they had always been or hopefully _better_ , a more open bond. He did not have time to dwell on a plan for too long that day, though, because Damian suddenly asked, his eyes still intently staring at his phone:

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Colin shielded himself from the way the faint blush on his friend’s cheeks and ears was making him feel. He pretended not to remember some of the men in the streets calling him ‘ _theirs_ ’, blocked every possible implication behind Damian’s question, and answered:

“Never had one, no.”                                                                                            

Damian bit his lower lip, frowned and stared at him for a moment. There was more he wanted to ask, of course; and Colin, in silence, had never prayed so fast. _Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t._

Luckily, Damian only nodded, averted his eyes and resumed texting Timothy again. Just like this, the matter was dropped. Colin was numb.

 

Jason stopped by to help him with GED prep later that evening. Colin enjoyed these private moments with him, even though they did not talk much about their personal lives anymore. Jason had been visibly exhausted and on edge for weeks, at that point. The teen did not know how to approach the situation. He wanted to help his friend but knew himself powerless. He wasn’t even sure that something was wrong; Jason had never seemed anything but busy and somewhat stressed, after all. Maybe some months were just more difficult than others? Colin did not want to overstep.

Half an hour into a math lesson, Jason groaned. “Shit, I forgot… _Glasses_.”

Colin had not noticed how close his nose was from the workbook he was reading. It was only usual to him. He straightened his posture and pushed the book away, but the letters started to blur then. While he wasn’t too bothered by it as such, he could not bear the idea of Jason worrying even more than usual.

“I’ll ask Sister Agnes,” he promised. “It should be okay.”

Jason hummed in agreement. Later, he asked:

“How’s it going with Damian?”

That was one of the things they had entirely stopped talking about over time. Colin had liked it better that way; keeping Jason in the dark was easier than wondering when the man would put a stop to the whole stint once he’d realise that Colin was, in fact, a threat—and a _coward_.

Colin settled on: “We’re good.”

Jason shot him an odd glance, but didn’t insist. They switched to History.

 

A few days later, on a Monday, Damian fell sick—for real this time. He exceptionally _called_ Colin during breakfast prep and sounded alarmingly close to death’s doors. Colin teased him about it a little before wishing him a prompt return to good health. Damian thanked him, apologised for the trouble of having to cancel yet another lesson, and once again offered to pay for the hours lost. Colin didn’t fight it this time.

He finally visited Specsavers with Sister Agnes the following Thursday. That morning, the nun had to swear to him at least ten times that the state would be paying all the costs, something Colin did not entirely believe until his social worker confirmed it over the phone.

The boy still felt like a major trouble. He tried to minimise his eyesight problem during the eye test and got upset that he did not manage to improve the diagnostic he had received months prior. He made a point to pick a cheap and basic frame—black, oval shaped, not as thin as he would have preferred. The employees informed him that he’d have to wait about three weeks for the glasses to be ready, which left him anxious in anticipation.

 

The following Saturday, Damian shared with him a picture of Titus, the Waynes’ Great Dane, snuggling with a stuffed alpaca under a dining table. The file was accompanied by a proposition to ‘ _meet_ _soon_ ’. Colin agreed, albeit on edge and unsure.

He had not been feeling his best after the visit at Specsavers and it had only got downhill from there, his late mother’s birthday fast approaching while St Aden’s was preparing to say goodbye to two siblings who would soon be fostered by a local family.

Colin was already mourning the loss of these two terrors. Each departure reminded him that his link with others was of thin build at best, friable most of the time.

He did not engage much with the kids or the nuns until supper, that day. He felt on edge and irritable, something he did not want to share with anyone. The evening came and went with its usual chores and its toddler drama, after which Colin went to bed without bothering to brush his teeth or change into his night clothes. The buttons and pockets linings of his jeans pressed painfully against his skin as soon as he lay down. He pretended not to feel it.

He grew more and more agitated over the next two days, starting fights with the nuns over the pettiest shit, losing patience with the kids, talking back and refusing to eat. He hated every single second of it—of _him._ He tried to find ways out, but only found more anger within. In the end, on the second evening of this charade and after yet another fight, he earned himself a nasty remark from Sister Gail about the fragility of his status of residence at St Aden’s.

It hit him all too hard, like a punch landing straight into his very concept of safety. He immediately retreated to his room and stayed on his knees on the floor his bed, leaning against the mattress, consumed by anxiety. He woke up at dawn, sore and bothered but not feeling much anymore—an improvement, he thought.

He went to the bathroom to clean up his face and brush his teeth. His mind was lost in the fog. He didn’t want to leave his room so soon, so instead he spent the next hour sitting cross-legged on his bed in silence, books piled around him as distractions, the calm only disturbed for a bit by the children walking and chatting in the hallway on their way to the dining room. After quick deliberations, Colin elected to skip breakfast. He lacked the energy to interact with anyone.

As expected, though, at seven twenty-nine, little Lottie and Kamala stormed into his space and demanded hugs, climbing on his bed before he even answered. Colin put on a reassuring smile and granted their request. He then sent them back on their way and noticed that Sister Mary was waiting for them by the door. She smiled and waved at him, a gesture he automatically mimicked before he echoed her quiet ‘ _good morning_ ’. That was all they exchanged before she quietly closed the door. Colin was grateful for her empathy.

He didn’t move for some time after this, reading random pages but not concentrating on anything. His mood was alternating between a blank state and a myriad of feelings he didn’t know how to process. When he finally dragged himself from the bed to his dresser to pick out a decent outfit for the day, he panicked at the realisation that he might not even be able to arrive at Wayne Enterprises at the agreed meeting hour. He had not seen the minutes go.

He got dressed in haste and messaged Damian a pre-emptive apology for the potential delay. He then ran outside his room and down the stairs, stopping in his tracks in the entrance lobby as soon as he heard Sister Agnes calling him from upstairs. His heart started to race, his chest and face were burning, a mix of discomfort and shame rising everywhere in him. He considered climbing back up, a second, but ultimately chose to leave the convent without a word.

 

He ran all the way to the station and entered a train right about to leave. People mostly ignored him as he tried and somewhat succeeded in calming his respiration before reaching his stop. The way to Wayne Enterprises seemed shorter than usual, what with Colin’s thoughts a mess. Did he look okay? He felt weak. Why had he skipped breakfast? He had spent the entire morning hungry—trying to convince himself he wasn’t. There was food in the kitchen, enough for all of them. He could have eaten.

He felt really stupid.

He greeted the receptionists and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. The door to the office in which Damian was waiting for him had been left ajar, probably so that Colin wouldn’t have to knock. The teen thus let himself in, apologising for being tardy as soon as he jumped over the threshold. The reply he got didn’t come from Damian, though.

“It’s fine. Little gremlin here is still eating his breakfast anyway.”

Tim Drake-Wayne was standing next to his little brother, grinning gently, collecting pages one by one as soon as Damian was done skimming through it. Colin was taken aback, but still politely smiled at the pair. Damian’s scowl was almost cute.

“I’m taller than you,” he groaned.

“Are you?” Tim asked, faking surprise. "I haven’t noticed.”

Smirking, he retrieved the last paper from Damian’s hands, muttering something in another language in a kinder tone this time, perhaps a bit teasing but nothing Damian seemed upset over. Colin had not moved. Soon enough, Tim took his leave.

“All yours,” he told Colin as he stepped into the corridor, waving in Damian’s direction.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Once the door closed, the teens exchanged awkward greetings. Colin dropped his bag on the floor and sat down opposite side of Damian. On the desk stood a half-empty tea cup and a plate full of triangle shaped pieces of a cake Colin had never seen before. The boy thought that it smelled nice, which caused his stomach to growl, betraying him.

He instantly felt his face turn red with embarrassment. Looking rather amused, Damian pushed the plate in Colin’s direction.

“There’s hareeseh for you too.”

Colin shivered, He thanked his friend and timidly took a piece of the cake. He bit into it once, then twice, then enough to finish it all too quickly. It was delicious. Damian, still smirking, gestured at the plate as an invitation to eat more. Blushing again, Colin nodded in gratitude. Before he stuffed his face with more cake, he reached out for his bag, grabbed the translation exercises he had planned for the day, and encouraged Damian to read it alone for a while.

They spent over half an hour discussing sentence constructions, with Colin regularly giving Damian vocabulary entries and explaining grammatical points they had not encountered thus far. All fell into place without problem or debate. Colin felt calmer than he had been in days, watching Damian work and enjoying what was remaining of the tea.

Until, out of nowhere, sadness came by his door. It crawled on his back, on his hands, on the nape of his neck. He froze—as his world did. His head and his heart turned busy and heavy, his breathing thinner and thinner. Where had this come from? What could warrant that? Colin’s body became a prison and his mind was failing to identify the cause. The apathy and vainness of the situation only comforted him in the idea that more than one thing was wrong with him.

Damian, in front of him, was still quietly working on some translation. His head was hanging low, too close to the desk. A few sentences in, he frowned. 

“Is this the right conjunction?” he asked, leaning in and lightly pushing his notebook forward.

Colin registered the question but felt himself drifting away, chocking on yet more tears—as if he still had some to spare. He didn’t want to cry in front of Damian, of course. ‘ _It would be unfair_ ’, he thought, but his chest had started to ache with more frustration and cries than he had thus far believed were constantly stuck in there. Shame was overcoming him.

In a last effort to calm down, he took a deep breath and tried to hold it in. When he failed to make it reach his lungs but noticed Damian’s curious stare, something cracked somewhere in him. In the end, he gave up and let the tears flow. He couldn’t help nor stop it. Mortified, he brought his hands to his face to cover up the mess, but not before he caught a glimpse of Damian’s reaction.

Colin had been dreading this potential scenario for months. He didn’t want to make Damian uncomfortable, for one, but also feared that his friend would panic or decide not to want anything to do with him anymore afterwards.

But Damian didn’t say anything. He didn’t leave his chair either, just kept his eyes on Colin, remaining immobile as if only waiting for the storm to go away. He still looked a bit shocked—understandably so.

When Colin’s sobs finally reduced to muffled hiccups and a string of ‘ _sorry_ ’, Damian switched his pencil from his right to his left hand and slid it across the desk. Through the cracks between his fingers, Colin followed the motions.

He wouldn’t have thought Damian to be able of much patience, but his movements and the strokes of the pencil on the notebook were careful and light enough to appease. The sound was quiet, too, forcing focus.

Colin made an effort to lower his hands completely off his face. Damian was drawing the cutest bunny in the margin right by an extract of Tacitus’ _Histories_ , a doodle soon followed underneath by one of a frog sporting the silliest neck piece and a crown. Colin smiled between two sniffles and wiped the last of his tears away.

“That’s your left hand,” he remarked.

“I can sketch with both.” Damian’s nervousness rang through the neutral tone. He looked more annoyed than he originally had but also more contrite, as if angry at himself. “I don’t know how to comfort you.”

Colin heard the unsaid “ _tell_ _me_ _how_ ”, and his heart sank. Damian cared, he knew that much, but Damian also loathed to expose his shortcomings. It wasn’t _pride_ —Colin didn’t believe it was pride. Damian feared his own imperfections and worked really hard to conceal his torments. It seemed to Colin that his friend thought himself simply _forbidden_ to be any degree of flawed on any level. Such toxic resolve had however shown some flexibility, in the past, on rare occasions like this one.

Still, never once had Damian openly asked for help, only barely hinted at his willingness to get some yet maybe not _accept_ any, and that’s what he was doing again. Colin never knew how to react. The shameful look on Damian’s face didn’t help him settle down, let alone pick an appropriate or helpful response. Colin was also too mentally exhausted to think himself able to manage Damian’s emotions that day, though it wasn’t as if Damian had explicitly asked him to do anything or had implied anything more than his own limitations and an acknowledgment of Colin’s apparent state of mind.

Really, it was stressful. It was too much. Colin was too distressed to cry again, panic running along his ribs, his eyes focused on his friend’s hands. He had no idea what to say.

But then, out of the blue, Damian let go of the pencil, got up and walked up to the messenger bag he had discarded against the bookshelves earlier. Colin watched carefully as his friend rummaged through the bag until he extracted a pack of tissues and a small, plastic water bottle from it. Damian then walked back toward the desk—no: toward _Colin_. The younger teen brought his hands in front of him in a mechanical move, regretting it in a second. Damian noticed, so he didn’t come too close. Still looking unsure, he offered Colin the items he was carrying.

And Colin was _parched_ and a sniffing mess. He took a few second to register Damian’s offer, and when he did, he stood up, and it became embarrassing. They stood here like two actors who had forgotten their lines or the very scene they were in. Damian was not breaking eye contact. Colin did, though. He shook himself, a moment, just enough to sparkle a reaction in his arms. He accepted the water bottle and put in on the desk, grabbed the pack of tissues and opened it immediately. Lord, was he feeling small…

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Face beet red, he turned around to blow his nose. Damian, bless him, walked back to his seat. Colin finished cleaning up, suddenly out of energy. His skin felt afire and cold at the same time. His eyes and throat hurt. “I’m sorry, Damian, you don’t pay me for this…”

“ _My father_ pays you. And I suspect he would rather you cry than bottle your bad feelings up. It’s the gospel he preaches.”

Colin dropped the dirty tissues in the bin by the desk and sat down again, averting his eyes. Crying exhausted him, but worse: it made him unwilling. He didn’t want to stay, although it had nothing to do with Damian personally. He didn’t know how to explain this out loud.

For a while, neither of the teens spoke, until Damian said:

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t very helpful. Drawing simple things helps me manage panic, sometimes, so I thought it could comfort you as well.”

Colin felt something pinch his heart several times.

“It was _kind_ ,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He wondered whether giving Damian a reason for his tears would be a good idea or not. He wasn’t even certain of what in particular had provoked it in the first place; but it was not as if reasons had been lacking either, as of late. “I miss my mom,” he confessed.

Damian shot him an odd glance, his face difficult to read. Colin had often doubted that it was a conversation the two of them could have at all, right then or any day. He didn’t want to push his friends’ boundaries to the point of no return.

To his relief, though, Damian quickly collected himself. “I’m sorry,” he said—and it sounded like he was.

The way he was moving his fingers lead Colin to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, Damian wanted to hold his hand. The sight alone was a bit of comfort, a vanity Colin allowed himself to feel.

“We should report the lesson again”, Damian suggested. “I don’t mean _leave_ , we could—”

“I should go home.”

Somewhere deep inside, Colin wanted to stay. To talk to Damian. To ask him what the deal with his mother was, to tell him about the day Niamh died, why she died, all the things she took with her. The safety lost. He wanted to ask for or be asked on a _date_ , even a friendly one, instead of keeping on pretending that they were still studying Latin as seriously as they claimed and had everyone believe.

He wanted all of it; only, he was too anxious then to cope with staying and hoping.

Damian nodded in understanding. “Do you need a lift? We have a chauffeur downstairs.”

“I don’t think…” _It would be nice. It would help._ “I’ll be all right, thanks. Sorry again. I’ll apologise to your father too, next time or over the phone.”

“It is not necessary.”

Colin was too tired to argue.

“Okay.”

Damian stood up and backed away toward the bookshelves to give his friend some space to gather his bag and his coat. There was something annoying about the precaution, but Colin couldn’t exactly identify it. Soon enough, he was ready to leave.

“Text me when you get home?” Damian asked him, not coming much closer.

“Sure.”

Colin waved him goodbye and quickly left the room. The elevator was not a good space for him at that moment so used the stairs instead, running down the eleven storeys separating him from the sidewalk. He stupidly forgot to exchange parting words with the receptionists.

He made his way through the streets and the train stations on autopilot, his reality blurred. He arrived at the gates of St Aden’s in a state of mind alternating between blank and troubled.

Sister Agnes was talking with a local priest over the threshold. As soon as she saw Colin enter the front yard, she frowned. She wasn’t upset, looking rather worried—to the boy, at least. He greeted the priest and waited in the lobby until the nun politely dismissed their guest. After the priest left, she mused:

“I suppose you have a good explanation for being back home from work so soon.”

Colin shrugged. His remorse about the way he had acted the previous days haunted him even more in her presence. There was a lot he wanted to ask her about peace, about Damian, about nightmares and moving on; but he feared that her answers would bring out truths he was trying hard to ignore, so he only left room for silence between them for a while. She didn’t budge, crossing her arms. He hoped for a truce.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said.

He meant it. She knew he did. She placed a hand on his left shoulder, patted him there, and sighed. Colin was aware that her concerns had not faltered.

“Go get some rest,” she told him. “But, first, go fetch some lunch from the kitchen. Sister Emily set some food aside for you. Take care of yourself today.”

Colin acquiesced, squeezed her hand in gratitude, and headed to the kitchen.

A snack and a shower later, he texted Damian as promised. The boy answered some minutes later, well-wishing words and more animal doodles attached to the message. Colin curled under his blanket, grateful for the attention, taken by the many colours on his small screen. One of the doodles, a black cat trapped in a green bubble, reminded him of Damian in the fondest of ways. He made it his screensaver.

 

The boys met more afterwards, two or three times a week. Bruce Wayne never once commented on the extra hours he otherwise dutifully paid Colin for.

They accidentally ran into each other in an elevator, one morning, two weeks into this new routine. The billionaire was busy listening to three people arguing about some architectural project. Meanwhile, Colin was ready to pass out from the embarrassment of just standing there among these suits, the ‘ _hello_ ’ he shyly spoke not loud enough to find an ear.

When the doors opened some floors up later and the employees stepped out, Colin felt relieved, but to his surprise, Bruce Wayne stayed behind.

“I’ll be right with you,” he told the employees. And, as soon as the doors closed, he turned to Colin, staring straight at him. “Hello,” he said. “My apologies, it’s always busy here.”

Colin offered him a small smile, his body however stiff. He still felt somewhat uncomfortable in the man’s presence, just the two of them, knowing what Bruce knew and fearing it could be used against him in some way, some day.

That idea didn’t have much basis, of course, and Colin hated himself for it a little more each time. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in people’s potential to be compassionate, understanding, or good. It wasn’t as if the man had ever done or said anything unkind to him, either. It wasn’t—it _wasn’t_. It only _looked like_ and that alone was enough.

“When are you taking your GED?” Bruce asked.

Colin winced. “This _decade_ , I hope. Jason is patient, but he might give up after that.”

Bruce scoffed, his smirk odd, his tone low when he retorted: “I wouldn’t be so sure—he can be _persistent_. Best of luck with the tests.”

“Thank you.”

They exchanged polite smiles just as the elevator doors opened a floor below Colin’s stop. Two people entered and, as soon as they saw their boss, set to ramble about some financial issue requiring his urgent attention. When they finally reached his floor, Colin excused himself and waved the billionaire goodbye. Bruce nodded in return.

 

Three lessons later, Damian started to _talk_.

While a lot of information was once again attached to a context Colin didn’t have, the most unexpected thing he picked up on was the covert resentment Damian seemed to feel towards _Jason_. The bitterness was unsettling.

“I think my father would rather Jason be his biological son.”

Colin immediately heard an unsaid ‘ _instead of me_ ’. Although he knew it to be all in his head, it still rubbed him the wrong way. He hurt for Damian and maybe for something else, maybe for Jason. He didn’t like the idea of a _hierarchy_ that the words had implied. He nevertheless made an effort to keep his cool.

“How come?” he asked.

Damian shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always felt this way. They have this connection, like they are _alike_ , made to function in sync.”

Colin couldn’t argue with this; Jason had always explicitly held Bruce Wayne very close to his heart, on the soft side of his speech, high on his pyramid of trust.

Still, Damian’s initial statement was leaving Colin annoyed. He couldn’t tell if it had just been a wording problem, a misplaced anger on his part, or something else and very real he might not want to seek out—let alone find—behind the walls.

“Your family doesn’t strike me as likely to make a difference between biological and adopted children,” he observed.

“They don’t.” Noticing Colin’s discomfort (‘ _they_ ’?), Damian quickly clarified: “And neither do _I_. It’s not what I meant, I am…”

He didn’t finish this sentence. His expression betrayed his sudden frustration. Colin, at that moment, started to doubt that he understood Damian’s words for what they had really tried to mean. Perhaps it had not been about Jason at all. Perhaps this phantom context was as bleak as Colin had imagined it to be. Perhaps it had been about a feeling of illegitimacy Damian was experiencing vis-à-vis his place within the Wayne family unit, having been added so late along the line like an extra piece attached by blood rather than choice. The idea left a sour taste in Colin’s mouth.

“You _are_ his son,” he said, his tone maybe too harsh. “Didn’t he fight in court for years, for _you_ , so you’d be living here with him? Be part of his family?”

Damian froze. He looked a bit startled—and a bit hurt too. Colin felt guilty instantly. He had alluded to said court case once and only _once_ in the past, not a single time more, for the defensive stance and threatening glare Damian had put on as soon as the words had been spoken had said plenty enough about the experience.

But Damian’s hurt dissipated shortly this time. Colin hoped it was because the Wayne had been able to read past his rushed tone and instead work straight into the ideas he had tried to express, ‘ _you’re wanted_ ’ and ‘ _your father loves you_ ’ and ‘ _you don’t have to try so hard_ ’.

Averting his gaze, Damian softly answered:

“He did.”

His watch beeped. Half past. They only had thirty minutes left and neither of them was comfortable with countdowns. While Colin absently flicked through the collection of poems open in front of him to relieve some of the tension, Damian straightened his back and briefly massaged his neck before he crossed his arms. He remained silent for a while, his head tilted so that Colin could clearly see the outline of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the light from the ceiling like yellow halos in his green eyes.

“It’s not that. Not _only_ that,” Damian conceded. “I just… I don’t understand Jason. I don’t know why he’s not legally my brother by now, or why he hasn’t even _asked_ to be. This is ridiculous, he knows my father would…” He stopped in his tracks and shook his head. He looked worn out and frustrated. “If Jason knows we would welcome him, then why won’t he welcome us?”

Colin didn’t have the answer—any answer at all, much less one Damian might have wanted to hear. He understood his friend’s fixation on legal ties, what with the Waynes’ public history, but he was not sure he could rationalise Jason’s choices given how much the man obviously loved this family. All he could offer Damian at that moment were potential clues to reflect on. 

“He might be _scared_ ,” he theorised. “Of _intruding_. Of not being enough.”

Damian went from calm to somewhat offended in a second, but didn’t say anything. Colin hoped that he had not projected too much in his hypothesis. It was difficult for him to judge Jason’s situation beyond their shared geographical and social origin. There was still a lot he didn’t understand, let alone know, about what had happened between the man and the Waynes. Coming to think of it, Colin still did not know that much about Jason.

But the thing that day was; it was not _only_ about Jason. The fact that the man’s actions were hurting Damian, even unintentionally, became a problem for Colin. On one hand, he wanted to ask Jason point blank why he would hesitate in getting officially adopted by a family he loved so dearly and who loved him just as much—the _Waynes_ , of all people. On the other hand, he knew that it was not so straight-forward, that there were feelings and history and half-worded truths clouding the answers.

While Colin was pondering this conflict, Damian was lost in thoughts as well. His frustration was evident.

“This is absurd,” he whispered.

Colin didn’t have a reply to this. The resigned tone and the faint resurgence of Damian’s accent were enough to know that there was nothing more to say.

They parted shortly after. Colin considered touching Damian’s hand, or _hugging_ him, but decided otherwise so not to impose on his friend’s space. The defensive vibes that radiated from Damian at that moment were enough to convince him to keep his distance anyway. Colin would instead send him a text later that day, something about star maps, to try and make things better.

He was under no obligation to go back to the convent yet, so he instead stopped by the library where he hoped to find Jason. Indeed, there the man was. He looked exhausted and cited ‘ _university_ ’ as the reason why.

Colin stepped in to help him check the organisation of the bookshelves. There was a lot of things he wanted to ask, but he feared it could come across as angry, accusatory or invasive. The last thing he wanted was for Jason to be hurt. But wasn’t Damian hurt too? It was complicated, adding to Colin’s stress.

He helped around the library for about an hour before he decided to go home. Jason gave him a cup of hot cocoa from the cafeteria for his trouble, apologised for not being better company, and promised to come by St Aden’s to help him study as soon as possible. Colin thanked him and left, perhaps too abruptly. He was about to go down the outside stairway when he automatically stopped in his tracks on the platform, his breath cut short when his eyes focused on the bottom of the stairs.

He had never had a problem with this before, even after his pseudo-accident. He had visited the library a few times and gone back to St Aden’s in peace, not even really registering the stairs. Why was it different that day? He didn’t know whether to be angry or worried at the question. He managed to calm down the pounding of his heart after half a minute, squeezing the paper cup a tad too tight. A burning drop fell on his fingers as he shook himself enough to move again.

He kept his eyes up at all time on the way back to the convent. All the while, he felt watched. Three streets away from, he thought he saw the blond man who had attacked him. He stood there, paralysed, until he was certain that he was only imagining it. People were looking at him strangely, enough to make him even more anxious, in a hurry to get home.

He reached St Aden’s minutes later and and went to sit down on the floor of his bathroom to calm down for a while. Once back in his room, he put his brief panic on the account of stress. He met Sister Agnes on his way back downstairs for roll call and told her about his fatigue. She took it seriously and asked him to try to sleep in the next day, as much as possible.

Colin quickly set to rest in his room after an early supper. It broke his heart to have to tell the children that he would not read them stories that night, that he was tired, that they could read to each other. They could read to each other. He had less and less purpose but more and more fear in this life.

His night turned into nothing but bad thoughts and interrupted rest.

 

He received a text from Specsavers three days later, notifying him that his glasses had arrived and were ready for pick-up. He went to tell Sister Agnes, who in response abandoned her work for the day and tagged along with him to the optician. An hour later, for the first time in a long time, Colin took a few minutes to detail his reflection in his bathroom mirror.

He hadn’t realised how much he had been forcing his eyes to focus in the past, or how dirty the mirror was. Both discoveries annoyed him, something he pinned on a burst of self-consciousness coming from the sight that greeted him in the frame.

He had heard many sweet words murmured in the shell of his ear about his appearance; “ _you’re cute_ ” and “ _you’ve got charm_ ” and “ _your lips are a lovely shade, tonight_ ”. Each time it came back to him, Damian’s covert compliments mixed up with it all, and Colin felt nauseated. He hated his freckles. He hated his scar. He hated that he could never bring himself to talk to Jason about his physical issues or about the job itself, scared as he was that the man would shut him out or, worse, leave.

He hated that there was no rationale behind this fear.

He cleaned up his mirror that night, messaged Jason about the glasses (but refused to send him a selfie), confirmed to Damian that their lesson the following morning was still on, turned his phone off, skipped dinner, and went to sleep hungry. The paralysis came crashing on him in his sleep, and the men’s voices came with, eerie faces appearing in every corner lit by the streetlight coming through the cracks in his blinds. Colin closed his eyes. He was scared and defeated.

 

He woke up five minutes before his alarm rang, anxiety hooked into him like safety pins. He had no will to leave St Aden’s but feared the guilt that would later come with staying in and bailing on Damian. He tried to motivate himself by rationalising that going would mean being able to afford comics for the kids the following week with the extra money he’d earn, or that it would give some peace of mind to Sister Agnes for a few hours. Somehow, it worked. Colin got out of bed, jumped into the shower, prayed for a quiet day, and later left his room to join everyone for breakfast.

He arrived at Wayne Enterprises not quite himself yet, too early again. He noticed then Damian had texted him moments before to inform him that once again, due to last minute changes, their usual meeting location would be unavailable. The boy had thus suggested they exceptionally meet in the cafeteria instead.

Colin was disturbed by the change. He was not in the right headspace to meet anyone, much less important people. He had no idea why he couldn’t tell Damian so and instead chose to go along ökdnvöknd with the proposition. It seemed too late to change anything at that point.

He ditched the lifts and climbed to the fourth floor using the stairs instead, hoping that it would help him calm down a little by the time he would reach the meeting point. It did not work much, but thankfully, given the time, there was almost no one in the large and very bright space. Colin quickly counted nine people, including the caterers. There was still twenty minutes to wait until the agreed meeting time, so Damian was yet to arrive.

Colin found a quiet corner on his left, away from the other employees and the farthest from the catering counters. He dropped his bag on the empty chair beside him, removes his coat and scarf, and he sat down. He got lost in thoughts in the process, dizzy and subdue, but as soon as a silhouette entered his peripheral vision a bit too close not to be a threat, he quickly got up, took half a step back, and brought his right arm near his chest. Richard Grayson-Wayne, standing on the other side of the table, raised his hands in a pacifying sign.

“Sorry, did I scare you?” he asked, apologetic.

Colin didn’t answer immediately. He could feel the heat of his shame spreading all over his face, making him want to run away. He was also mortified that he had not recognised the man earlier, even from afar, an oversight he hoped would not be seen as an insult.

“No,” he replied. “A little. I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t see you, I’m sorry. Good morning.”

Richard grinned, relieved, letting his hands drop to his sides before he quietly took a seat, keeping a fair distance between them.

“Hi,” he greeted back. “Did your arm heal well?”

“It did. Thank you again for your help.”

“All Jason’s doing.”

The man had the kindest smile. Colin could tell it was sincere, but remained careful. While the guy in front of him didn’t seem to want anything more than a quick chat, his eyes were nonetheless set on detailing the teen’s face and body language the same way Jason did at times. It was still a foreign attention, something uncomfortable, too careful, too _seeing_. Colin did not like this habit much and only saw wrong sides to it, a thought he chastised himself for internally as soon as Richard asked:

“Are you waiting for Damian? Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry?”

Colin blushed, shook his head, mumbled: “No, thank you. Damian should be here soon.”

“Okay.” Richard paused. He wasn’t judging Colin anymore, only staring straight into his eyes. “You two are getting along, I heard.”

Colin pretended nothing had been implied by this. “We are.”

Richard beamed, a shadow however resting on his lips. “I’m glad to hear that. Damian doesn’t have many friends.”

“Neither do I.”

Must Colin always sound rude in front of every Wayne in sight? He wanted to scream and disappear. What a fucking idiot. Richard, bless him, did not react much to the comment, or, if he did, was kind enough to conceal it. A smile was still gracing his lips as he leaned back in his chair and replied:

“Maybe we don’t need many anyway, yeah?”

Colin unintentionally grinned. Damian had once told him Richard was the second most easy-going member of his family, an assessment Jason had also expressed in the past. They had not oversold that.

“Damian is nice,” Colin offered.

“He is. I’m glad that you think so, it’s not always easy to see…” Richard fumbled through his pockets, found a business card, asked Colin for a pen (the teen obliged), scribbled something on the card, then slid both items across to table. “Here—if you need a ride,” he explained. “I’ve been my brothers’ go-to driver ever since I got my own car. Perks and curse of being the oldest, I suppose. It’s not only for drives, though, so if you need anything…”

Colin took the card and filed it in the back pocket of his messenger bag. He had no plan to use the number, but Richard didn’t need to know that.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you around?”

They exchanged goodbyes. Colin briefly wondered why Richard would not stick around to see Damian, but he assumed that the man was busy after all, so he let the question go.

He spent the ten more minutes it took for Damian to arrive inspecting his specs, making sure they were clean before he pushed them back on his nose, avoiding his reflection on the black screen of his phone. His uneasiness only increased, panic weaving networks under his skin once more, digging deeper when he heard Damian greet him in a strange tone. Colin felt paralysed again. He could barely raise his eyes to meet his friend’s in acknowledgement.

Damian didn’t comment on the silence. He sat down in front of Colin, who got a better look at his face and disliked the hurt and anger he found there. Not that Damian was ever about rainbows and sunshine, but Colin had started to recognise when his friend was muting specific grievances rather than not hiding his general annoyance. As the Wayne unpacked a notebook and some pens, Colin tried and failed to come up with any clever word—or any word at all.

For some reason, he didn’t want Damian to look at him at that moment.

But the boy stared, of course. Colin could follow his gaze around the frame of the glasses, going from it to the scar on his jaw, several times.  It was silly to think, but he thought he was seeing more than curiosity in Damian’s eyes.

When the staring turned awkward, he tried to disrupt it.

“Does it look weird?”

Damian blushed instantly, as if he had just been caught in a moment meant to be kept private. “No.”

Colin averted his eyes, still torn between craving more of the attention and giving in to some residual torment. In front of him, as a distraction, Damian opened and flicked through his notebook. There were more doodles in there than any actual notes about Latin.

When he finally found a blank page, he relaxed a little and stared at Colin again. A mocking smirk on his lips, he asked:

“Do you see me better?”

Colin had expected this question, had mulled it over for quite some time on the way from home.

For years, from the other side, he had seen Damian in the news and magazines, had not wallowed on his public image but had been content with just looking, just _wanting_ secretly. It was no surprise that Damian was not what Colin had imagined. It was only a mild shock to find out that he was attracted to men. It was not a problem that they were still too different to fully connect; that Colin had difficulty coping with his history, or that Damian was bad at expressing his feelings.

But Colin had long understood that Damian was also caring, not deep down or on invisible levels but more and more openly, genuine in his willingness and efforts to foster their relationship for the better. Sure, he was still angry and had a poor grasp on his feelings and intentions and the proper ways to express either, but he was _trying_.

Colin wondered whether—and in what way—he should start trying too.

 “I do.”

 

Jason stopped by St Aden’s four days later to help him prep for his upcoming first official GED test. Colin was quieter by then, although his doubts were hard to ignore.

He spent the first half hour of their meeting barely listening to anything Jason was trying to teach him about geography. He had something to ask but was struggling with the words. He had no plan. Had tried to come up with a plan but instead had come down with a panic attack. He wasn’t even sure that his decision was right, and the more he pushed it away, the louder his doubt laughed. Ultimately, he took a deep breath, listened to his heartbeat, and braced himself for impact. He still feared Jason’s reaction but was scared enough of other things to know that he could no longer keep up with things as they were.

“Could you…”

Jason looked up. Perhaps worried by Colin’s tone and body language, he seemed completely focused on whatever the teen was about to say. It was more intimidating than reassuring, almost too much in a way. Colin hesitated, a few seconds, but ultimately let out:

“Do you know someone I could talk to?”

He felt guilty to imply that he couldn’t tell Jason _everything_ , but it was only the truth, and he had run out of other options. He hoped the man would understand; and Jason, thankfully, did.   

“Like a therapist?” he asked, and Colin nodded. “Yeah, I… It’s not my place to push you to see any, of course, but—”

“I haven’t _decided_. I’m not _sure_ ,” Colin stressed. “It’s just… It’s not…” He had to calm down again. He couldn’t. Jason was waiting, but there wasn’t much more Colin could say. “I can’t tell you. You can’t help.”

He feared Jason would be hurt to hear this or would take it too personally. Colin only wanted to help him understand, but he didn’t have the words to explain any better at that moment. He felt sicker by the second and was ready to run away.

But Jason, still looking straight at him, gave no indication that he was hurt, angry, or sad. Instead, he seemed relaxed, his voice calm when he replied:

“Asking for help is a good step. Even better if you know who can help you best.”

Colin did not want to hear the hint of pride in that. He didn’t deserve it. He was only scared—it was just an escape. He didn’t want Jason to believe that any kind of concrete progress had been done, because Colin was not _that_ brave; but, at the same time, he needed Jason to know that his efforts hadn’t been vain. He wanted the man to be happy. He wanted to praise him, to tell him ‘ _thank you_ ’ and ‘ _I love you_ ’ and ‘ _please don’t give up on me_ ’.

He wanted to cry.

He was getting too worked up, clenching his fists too tight over the desk. Jason noticed and raised his left hand in a call for peace as he let out a soft ‘ _all right_ ’. He waited for Colin to cool off a little, then said:

“There _is_ someone I hoped you’d agree to meet with at some point. A therapist—though she’s more of a volunteer counsellor now. Her name is Selina. She is one of Bruce’s oldest and most reliable friends, and someone _I_ trust. She hasn’t been working as a therapist in an official capacity much for a few years now since she’s decided to move on to charity work, but I’m sure she’d make an exception and open her schedule for you. For _free_ , that is. She used to work with sex workers and sexual abuse victims, in the past, and still volunteers to help them any chance she gets nowadays. She’s very kind. She could help you.”

Colin was taken aback. For a moment, he didn’t react. He had no idea how. Jason was staring at him, his concern thick enough to kiss. They both grew uneasy, and, right as Colin found a single fear to focus on, Jason tried to alleviate the pressure.

“It doesn’t _have_ to be—”

“What if she…,” Colin stuttered. “If she and Bruce…”

Jason shook his head. “She won’t say anything,” he swore. “To _anyone_. Not to me, not to Bruce. She won’t push meds. She wasn’t _my_ therapist. I’d recommend Harleen any day, but that would be _awkward_ , even if I don’t see her anymore. It’s best we don’t share, and besides, Selina would be more suited to your needs. She’ll understand your troubles.”

“She could call the cops.”

Colin hadn’t meant to sound so unnerved—he just _was_. Jason’s faith, however, did not waver.

“She _won’t_. Not her. She doesn’t have to anymore, for one, and she knows exactly whom the first—or perhaps _only_ —blame would fall on. She knows the foster system, too. First hand.” He marked a pause, losing himself in thoughts. Whatever he was hesitating to say, he ultimately kept secret, sighing and softly smiling instead. “Think about it, yeah?” he told Colin. “We can contact her anytime, but it doesn’t _have_ to be her.”

Silence settled between them for a moment again, enough time for Colin to feel himself drifting away. He had not expected such a thorough answer. It was more than he could process, and because of this, a part of him hated Jason right then, hated that the man had given him _real_ _options_ , when all Colin had wanted was to be _heard_ and comforted. He could have cried on the spot, from despair or gratitude; but he was scared and the fear, stuck somewhere behind his heart, was starting to melt and reshape into a monstrous ball of self-loathing he hadn’t known could grow that big.

Fortunately, Jason calling for his attention again helped him focus on something else.

“Listen—you listening? I’m proud of you for asking for help. You rarely get what you don’t ask for, but asking can be too difficult sometimes. More difficult is to _accept_ the help offered in response, I know. Guess that’s what you should work on for now.”

Colin nodded, still a bit absent. Hoping to dismiss the subject, he pretended to focus on his math workbook again. Jason took the hint and did not push the conversation any further. Moments later, he received a message and excused himself for the day. Colin walked him to the door. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, of course, but no right words were crossing his mind.

“I’ll think about it,” he told Jason when they arrived in the lobby. “Promise.”

“Good.”

As soon as Jason left, Colin went straight to his room and didn’t leave it until supper. He barely ate anything. It was as if his head was surrounded by a fog too thick, his patience both thin and infinite, his worries reduced to a permanent sensation of being too cold to function. He went to bed early again, his body heavy under the blankets. Around nine, Damian texted him and asked if they could ‘ _meet up_ ’ the next day. Colin could not ignore this kind of formulations anymore, but chose not to address them by text at the time. He simply answered by the affirmative, agreed on the time proposed by Damian in response, then shut off his phone to give himself some space.

He spent the next hours wide awake, reorganising his room and thinking about his feelings for and relationship with Damian. Moving forward with him was, as usual, a struggle without any straight-forward answer.

The thing was: Damian was helping. He had respected Colin’s wishes and boundaries after their talk at St Aden’s, was still rough on the edges at times but seemed more and more attentive and aware of Colin’s needs. He had shared secrets and fears, subtly asking for advice. Spending time with him made Colin feel heard and cared for without being asked for anything more than he could give. It made him feel useful.

But that still was not enough to shift their friendship beyond professional grounds. Although they had proven to themselves that they could be emotionally supportive of one another, they still had a lot of personal issues to unpack and process, like bleeding wounds yet to be sewn shut from their respective corners of trauma. The distance between where they were and mutual trust was still a blur. Colin surmised that crossing it would involve more honesty and truths, something he was not yet ready to give.

He still promised himself to try.

 

He turned his phone back on around four o’clock and dozed off shortly after. He got only about three hours of sleep before toddlers came knocking on his door and asked him to come downstairs for breakfast. They got loud fast and Colin had to be at Wayne Enterprises three hours later anyway, so he obliged and accompanied them to the dining hall.

He felt sluggish the whole morning, his body aching and his mind oddly calm. It was as if feelings of any kind had been altered and mashed together, turned into mist. It was neither good or bad.

He helped the older kids get ready for school, helped Sister Emily clean the kitchen, helped the younger kids set up a space for craft projects, let time become quick enough to go unnoticed until he had to leave. He set to arrive at Wayne Enterprises with some minutes to spare, or so he thought until his train was late. He still passed the gates of the building right on time and made his way toward Bruce Wayne’s office—their meeting point for the day—where Damian was waiting.

Colin knocked on the door and pushed it immediately after. He was about to greet Damian but could not locate him in the room at first. Bruce Wayne’s desk was full of papers, but the small desk was bare.

Peering around it, Colin spotted his friends sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the bookshelf, sketchbook and pencil in his hand, his bag discarded on his right. He seemed upset in every way, tired in his anger. He glanced in Colin’s direction and started to move as if he was about to stand up, but stopped midway, averting his eyes—glossy, Colin noted—and sighing as his shoulders dropped and he brought his hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t tell” —a plea; “don’t go?” —a hope.

Colin had no intention to go. He closed the door behind him, dropped his bag and coat on the desk and walked toward Damian. He didn’t know how close was _too close_ , but he was too tired to make better decisions then; so he pushed the chair standing in his way and came to sit on the floor too right next to Damian, on the boy’s left, letting their elbows touch. Damian shivered for a second, but didn’t reject the contact, nor did he seem uncomfortable. Colin felt warm, sitting so close to him.

After a couple of minutes spent wrapped in a silence only disturbed by the sound of Damian sketching cherry trees, everything was cosy enough to lull Colin closer to a sleepy haze. His restless night was catching up on him. His concern for his friend was still keeping him alert, though.

When Damian stopped drawing, the atmosphere shifted. Colin turned to look at him, at his glassy eyes, at his thick lashes, at his pinched lips and furrowed brows.

“Richard left for a few days,” Damian mumbles. “He’s visiting friends in Chicago.” He paused for a few seconds, holding his pencil too tight. “I haven’t been… We haven’t talked in a while.” His knuckles were white from the pressure. “I want him back.”

This sparked vexation in Colin, something frantic and raw.

“Then _tell him you do_ ,” he stressed. “In plain words. Tell him you do. _Talk_ to your family, Damian.”

Damian glared at him, but it quickly morphed into something hurt. He took a deep breath, his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose again, absently tapping his pencil on the sketchbook in a regular rhythm. Colin waited, and waited, and waited. He barely heard Damian’s voice when the boy muttered:

“I don’t know how.”

And Colin’s heart sank deep. Damian meant well; he was only struggling. He would too often go about pain and anger the wrong way and ask for help in wrong dialects. Whatever had happened prior to the day he had moved in with the Waynes had seemingly given him a poor image of his emotional value, something that had convinced him that he was not as important as his brothers, and that vulnerability was at high risk of being rewarded with only betrayal or mockery. This life had left him scared and scarred and harsh and his own best friend and worst enemy.

Colin just wanted to hold him and to never, ever let go.

“Can I see your phone?” he asked. Damian looked surprised and somewhat suspicious at the demand, visibly tensing. But Colin decided not to back down. “Trust me. Just this once.”

Although he did not look any more convinced, Damian reached for his pocket, took his phone, unlocked it, and gave it to the other teen. There wasn’t much thought behind this plan, but Colin went through with it anyway. He composed a neutral message, wishes about a good time in Chicago and ‘ _I miss you and would like for us to hang out when you return_ ’. He then gave the phone back to Damian, whose embarrassed and a bit fearful reaction upon reading the message was evident. It worried Colin a little.

“It can be amended,” he said. “Keep it clear, but otherwise…”

Damian did not reply immediately. He fumbled with his phone after a while, went through his contact list and selected a name as he quietly stated:

“No. It’s good.”

He hesitated some seconds more but ultimately pressed ‘ _send_ ’. Although he was still flustered, he let go of some tension in his posture as he put the phone back in his pocket. His eyes then focused on the point where their arms were still touching, and he muttered:

“Thank you.”

Colin felt the words run along his bones. He could not stop what happened next and dared bringing his hand close enough to Damian’s to brush. He froze there, not so sure anymore that he wanted to see the other boy’s reaction.

Damian settled his pinkie and ring finger on the back of Colin’s hand in response.

They did not talk for some time after that. Damian resumed sketching. Colin was left with his thoughts.

He tried to imagine what kind of scenario could have driven a wedge between his friend—still resolutely a friend—and Richard that would result in such an emotional response. He was unable to ponder it for long, though, because he quickly felt physical fatigue dig its claws into him once again, facilitated by the calm around him. His heartrate gradually slowed down.

He suppressed a yawn and leaned more heavily against the books behind him. He rapidly had more and more trouble keeping his eyes open. He tried to focus on the coldness of Damian’s hand above his own to stay alert, but all it resulted in was feeling his mind drifting further away, confused about how to interpret the gesture all while appreciating the odd quietness it was filling his chest with.

After a while, he wondered: ‘ _what would the harm be in resting my eyes for a minute?_ ’; and so he did.

He woke up an indefinite number of minutes later, his upper body slumped against Damian’s and his head resting on Damian’s shoulder. He jolted wide awake at the violent embarrassment that hit him at that very moment. Straightening up, he got away from Damian a little, just shifting away uncomfortably as his legs were still too heavy to really move. Leaving the warmth of Damian’s hand the process, he brought his right arm closer to his chest in this same damn defensive move he was still hoping to part with and got ready to apologise a thousand times.

But Damian seemed amused. A bit embarrassed himself, perhaps, judging by the flush on his cheeks; but amused nevertheless. It had no trace of malice. Sheepish, Colin trailed off:

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s all right.” A devilish grin, then: “You snore.”

“You’re a jerk.”

Damian _laughed_ , something light and spontaneous. Colin froze at the sound and tried to memorise it. A moment later, he came back a tad closer—emboldened as he was by the turn of events—but not as close as before. Damian didn’t react this time. He had switched to another sketch on another page at some point.

Colin glanced at his watch. His impromptu nap would not have lasted more than thirty minutes, he figured. He was still ashamed that he had used Damian’s body as a pillow, even though the Wayne had shrugged the matter off afterwards. And what if he thought that Colin had planned this? It was probably paranoid to think like this, but just in case, the teen quietly insisted:

“But I’m really sorry, you know.”

“It was barely twenty minutes. It’s fine.” Damian stopped drawing, turned to Colin, and glanced at him up and down a couple of times. A blush came back on his cheeks. “You’re warm.”

This was _not good_. Nothing that day had been good. It was nothing but the _true_ of that boy that was shining in front of Colin at that very moment, every single detail betraying that Damian was but a rainfall tucked behind a storm, trading truths for fears and cries, like a ribcage on lockdown yet full of care, craving pillage.

And Colin loved him. Worried about him. Although nothing that day had been good, it had felt and was still feeling good then.

Colin wanted this feeling to stay. Holding onto this wish tight, he dragged himself closer to his friend again, back to his initial position. He watched the boy draw. He wanted to hold his hand. He wondered if that would be okay, his thoughts interrupted when Damian suddenly told him:

“I’ll turn eighteen years old in two months. Nothing is planned yet, but I’m sure there’ll be a party. Would you come?”

Colin could only imagine the blush on his cheeks. Everything felt warm.

“If you want me to, then yes.”

Damian kept his eyes on the sketch but smiled softly upon hearing this. His visible happiness was short-lived, though. Something seemed to torture his mind, something he confided in Colin when he asked:

“Do you not sleep well?”

Colin briefly considered playing the reassurance card, to tell him that he was okay, nights were usually okay; but that would be lying again. He didn’t _have_ to lie. He was wary of the potential reaction but answered with the truth anyway.

“Some nights are difficult.”

Damian straightened up again, dropped his pencil and massaged the back of his neck. He gave Colin a nod in understanding, before his cheeks reddened again. He averted his eyes and mulled over something in silence for a while. Then, he grabbed his bag, took a heavy book from it and put it in Colin’s hands.

The teen was a bit confused. “What is…,” he started, but then noticed the book cover and title. Star maps. Something about constellation, from their shapes to the origins of their names. Colin opened the book cover. Damian had sketched and coloured the cutest small squirrel sporting a t-shirt with a constellation with a partial rainbow overlay on it. The date handwritten on the right indicated a day almost two months prior.

“For you,” Damian said.

And Colin’s heart became soft, malleable, a plaything Damian could have moulded at will until it was all his, small enough to carry, fitting like water in the pleats of his palms, in the cracks on his lips, somewhere safe in his thoughts. He needed nowhere else to go.

 

* * *

 

 

He needs a _somewhere else_ now. He is scared and he knows he only has himself to blame. He does not think that his decision to leave St Aden’s was entirely unjustified, but he is well aware that it was far from the only—or the best—solution at hand. It is still early in the night, not even ten o’clock; there is no way his absence will go unbeknown to the nuns.

He inhales and exhales deeply several times. It’s a bit chilly now, his long-sleeved sweater warm enough for daytime, but he underestimated the night. He curses and shivers. He doesn’t let go of the stoup. This church is not too far from St Aden’s, illuminated by the many lanterns at the windows and by the door as usual, like scattered stars under which the boy hoped to find answers, redemption, and courage.

It is no accident that he travelled there of all places, even though he’s not sure he remembers the travel in itself. He has faith in this church. He once stayed with a foster family located nearby, a very short affair but they had all been kind to him until they had to move away. He remembers the parents and their two kids showing him the building, call it the ‘ _Lantern Church_ ’, pointing at the lights behind the windows and on both sides of the door. The local priest, Colin learned later, turns these on every night of the year.

They quickly looked and felt like guiding charms in the teen’s mind. Although he was soon placed with the nuns at St Aden’s and thus moved to another part of the city, he’s been making a point to visit the Lantern Church and pray there once every month or so ever since he has been granted the right to move around the town partially unsupervised. He normally goes during the day, of course, keeping the night visits for the winters when as early as four o’clock is dark enough already for the lanterns to shine. Sister Agnes joined him to pray there twice, last year.

She must be so worried now. Colin is doing this to her.

The logical thing to do now would be to go home. It’s not a long travel by train, fifteen minutes at most, to which can be added the time between here and the nearest station, and then some more walking to the convent. In about half an hour, Colin could be back with the nuns. They would probably punish him dearly for his escape, but that would only be a small problem in comparison to what he dreads—namely, the cops. The law doesn’t joke with foster kids playing runaways.

Colin likes to think that Sister Agnes, who is usually the one checking the rooms at this time, would not turn to the cops immediately. He feels safe with this thought for a minute, just one, because then he remembers that she tried to call him about five minutes ago, but he left the call unanswered. He has no idea why. He is nothing if scared and wishing for Jason to save him.

And this, here, is another problem. Colin knows it is wrong to rely on the man the way he does, so heavily and always. He is tired of needing Jason; he wants Jason to need him too. He doesn’t want Jason to become a shorthand for ‘ _demands and hopes and hideaway_ ’ because it would be unfair, and he doesn’t want to be unfair.

All he does is wanting and not wanting while his heart is too small, and his self-worth is famished.

He drags in a deep breath, reaches for his phone again, and murmurs to himself that he should call Sister Agnes back. He does not have the words to tell her how sorry he is and he’d rather no one hear of the precise fear drove him to escape; but he cannot leave her like this.

Nervous, he tries to forget the surge of panic he felt earlier. He tries to forget Damian and the way the boy’s hand feels. He tells himself that he is nothing but a crybaby who always expects Jason to make things better and to give and give and _give_.

He cries from the lies and the guilt when his phone rings in his hands and the caller ID flashes the name _Jason_.

It’s a seven-second decision. If he answers, Jason will tell him to go home and face the consequences of his actions, after what this one bad choice will stop. It’s unlikely that the man will be kind, but Colin cannot possibly expect him to be. The two possible outcomes, if he answers, are facing the cops or fabricating a miracle. Not answering the call, on the other hand, only allows one of these outcomes—the first. He guesses that the nuns would call his social worker too, maybe even ask Colin be sent away. What would become of him outside St Aden’s? What could happen _to St Aden’s_ because of him?

Colin can’t stop his tears. He’s stuck between stress and defeat. He accepts Jason’s call and has no time for greetings, for the man curtly and immediately asks him:

“Where are you?”

Colin quivers. “I’m sorr—”

“Where the fuck are you?!”

Jason is not playing. There is no compassion in his tone, only anger and violence. Colin wonders if this is the end of everything, but fathoms that he should keep his fears for himself for now and only answer the man’s questions.

“Midtown East.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t…”

‘ _I can’t go home_ ’, he wants to say, but it isn’t true. He _can_ go home. He knows he _has_ to. The more the minutes pass, the worse the matters become. He knows he fucked up; and yet, he still pleads.

“Please don’t make me go home.”

“You’re going back. Non-negotiable. Sister Agnes gave me thirty minutes to find you before she starts involving authorities. I’m coming to pick you up and bring you back to her— _right now_.”

There is no arguing with the reasonable answer. Learning that Sister Agnes might not have ratted him out makes Colin feel a bit better. His shame, however, still hangs in his every thought.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Neither of them speaks for thirty-one seconds. It doesn’t make Colin any calmer. On the other end of the line, Jason seems equally frustrated. This was not a night either of them was looking forward too.

“Did you meet anyone?”

There’s a pain in Jason’s voice—a deception, perhaps. Colin feels panic bloom in every bone and vein inside.

He can’t lose Jason. He can’t. He _can’t_.

“ _No_. No, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t want to, I _don’t_ want to, it’s not why I… it’s not about that—”

“Then _what is it about_?”

As the man is getting worked up again and stuns him with what can only be identified as _fear_ , Colin hears a faint but stern ‘ _Master Jason_ ’ coming from Jason’s side of the line. He immediately attributes the voice to the Wayne family butler and hopes, while he is not comfortable with the current situation being made public and doesn’t understand why the man would be with Jason right now, that this influence can encourage the librarian to remain patient and calm.

And it seems to work out in this direction indeed, for when Jason speaks again, his tone is slightly more levelled.

“Where exactly are you?”

“Near the Lantern Church.”

“The Lantern… You mean the one with the lights all around?”

“Yes.”

There’s an odd silence on the line. Colin wipes the tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, lets go of the spout at last before he turns around to face the park. The green space is quite big and the trees have gained leaves and colours again, so much that the teen cannot see the other side. It is too dark by now and some street lights are broken. On Colin’s right, across the motorised road, a couple is strolling on the sidewalk, laughing and holding hands. He watches them for a few seconds, then shakes his head and looks up to the sky. He can’t see any god from here.

Something finally shuffles on the other side of the line, as if Jason is readjusting the position of his phone.

“Why are you…,” he whispers. “Why there?”

Colin frowns. He hopes Jason will believe him; he only plans to tell the truth.

“I used to be fostered nearby. Long ago. I came here to pray.”

More silence, shorter this time. “Do you know where Hal’s Bakery is? West side of the park, across the road from the gates.”

“Yeah.”

“Go there. Enter Radnor street and look for number 49, three doors on the left. A friend of mine lives there. _I_ used to live there. I trust the guy, and you can trust him too. I know he’s home tonight, so I’ll ask him to let you in while you wait for us to pick you up. You’re not staying out there on your own—there’s no discussion to be had.”

Colin nods. He knows Jason can’t see him, but he has to reassure himself first. ‘ _Go there_ ’? To a stranger’s place? Jason may trust this man, but Colin obviously doesn’t. He doesn’t even know if he can still trust Jason now, cannot tell how this night will impact their relationship. He is simply devastated.

“I’m sorry, Jay.”

“You’re right to be.”

It hurts. He knows his actions warrant Jason’s pain and anger, and yet, it still hurts. 

“Now,” Jason sighs. “Go where I told you to go, then stay put. We just left Crest Hill, so traffic should take about half an hour from now. I’ll call Sister Agnes back to tell her that I know where you are, that you’re safe and sound and coming back home very soon in this exact same physical state, so no need for her to call the cops. She might still choose to do it, of course, but we can’t control that. Bringing you home is as far as I can protect you tonight.”

‘ _Protect_.’

“Thank you.”

“Wait by the door. We’ll sort this out.”

Jason disconnects the call. Everything is quiet, the sound of police and ambulance sirens only ringing from a fair distance afar. There is no one on the adjacent streets. Most of the windows are dark.

 

Colin takes one last inspiration before he sets out to find the address Jason told him to reach. He knows where the bakery is, so this part of the travel is easy. His mind is foggy and numb. He forgot which number he has to spot in Radnor street and is close to a panic attack as a result, until he notices a man is waiting by a door left wide open. It’s one of these doors one can only open from the inside or with a code and a key. It’s one of these men Colin can’t judge quickly and thus would, in normal circumstances, avoid.

“Are you Colin?” the guy asks, his voice strained. He waits until the boy nods and murmurs a weak ‘ _yeah_ ’ to add: “Come on in.”

Colin does as he’s told. He follows the stranger—Jason forgot to mention his name—in a dim-lit hallway and three storeys worth of stairs. There, the man pushes a door and invites the teen in.

On Colin’s left, there is a living room separated from a kitchen area by a high countertop. The decoration is minimalist, red sofa and white walls, brown bookcases and cupboards. A red armchair is here too, further on the left, partially hidden from Colin’s eyes. Three high stools stand in front of the counter. A pile of folded laundry occupies one side on the sofa, while some extra clothes hang loosely on the armrest. There are dirty dishes in the sink.

The stranger closes the door behind them, tells Colin to ‘ _make himself cosy_ ’, then walks straight toward the kitchen. It’s the first time the teen can take a good look at his host: hair lighter and longer than his, body tall and tough looking, dressed in blue jeans and a grey tank top that doesn’t hide the tattoos on his arms. He is not wearing shoes. He is obviously tired, his movements slow as he cleans the dishes, his back turned the boy.

Colin feels guilty for keeping this man awake at least twenty minutes more. He doesn’t dare to move away from the tiny lobby where he stands, ashamed as he is. He takes a look around instead.

There are a lot of pictures pinned on a wooden board on his right. Colin spots Jason on several of them, which makes him smile by automatism. The librarian looks no older than sixteen on one photo, maybe eighteen on the silly ID roll he took together with the red-haired stranger. Many of the pictures show a little girl growing up, from a baby in a green onesie to a toddler with wild black hair, caught laughing as the stranger hugs her tight. Other people made the display too, among which the familiar face of Richard Grayson-Wayne. It’s a collage of happiness.

“You can come closer,” the stranger tells him.

Colin snaps out of his contemplation and turns his attention back to the guy, who is now leaning against the sink, facing him, plate and tea towel in hand.

“I don’t bite,” he goes on, smirking. “The sofa is comfy. I can make you something to drink.”

Colin hesitates but figures that it would be rude not to accept. It’s not as if they have a lot of time to spend together anyway; he can certainly try to be pleasant for this short while.

He would not feel comfortable sitting alone on the sofa, so he instead chooses to get closer to his host, stopping right behind the counter, next to a stool. Near the stranger, further on the right, he notices three more pictures and other papers stuck on the fridge. His curiosity wins, and he steps closer to see. One is a school portrait of the little same little girl he saw. There is a bad drawing underneath, something made by a child—most likely _this_ child—with the signature ‘ _Lian_ ’.

Another picture shows a blond woman and a blond man on what seems to be a big celebration. Colin is certain that he has seen the man before, but he cannot recall where, let alone what his name might be.

The third picture is of Jason sitting on the red sofa in this living room. He is holding Lian and reading a book to her. Further up the fridge, a few notes display his cursive handwriting; _‘AA Tuesdays—NO skipping!’_ , _‘Pick up Complera prescription on Thursday xx.xx’_ , _‘Lunch with Dick—where and when?’_

“Name’s Roy,” the stranger suddenly says, making Colin jump in surprise.

It’s not that he had forgotten where he was, or who he was here with, but it is fascinating to get yet another glimpse into Jason’s life, another secret. He blushes in embarrassment. He is such a rude guest. He hopes that Roy can forgive him _—_ and it seems like he does, for he is smiling when he adds:

“I heard you fucked up?”

Colin is taken aback, can’t help but scoff at the tone. There is something almost kind in there, like a desire to dedramatize tonight. It is futile, for sure, but nonetheless comforting.

Roy drops the tea towel behind the sink, puts the plate in a cupboard above it, and starts feeding grinded coffee beans into the coffee machine. Colin ponders the situation for a bit, ultimately decides to tell the man the truth.

“I ran away.”

“Did you have to?”

There is no good response to this. ‘ _Yes, I was scared and unsafe_.’ ‘ _No, I could’ve called Jason or taken refuge near the nuns_.’ Colin is not even sure he would stay in the convent if he were given the possibility to go back in time and make different choices. All was and is still too much and too intense for him to process alone. 

He looks down to avoid having to look at Roy in the eye. In front of him, thick enough to see, track marks on the inside of the man’s left arm attract his attention. He has no idea what to think about this. He has no idea about _anything_. Roy comes to his rescue by quietly stating:

“Well, you’re safe now anyway. I’m making coffee—do you drink coffee?”

Colin nods, making an effort to peer up this time. Roy mutters something to himself in another language but English, turns on the coffee maker, then goes near the sofa to grab a red cardigan from the pile of unfolded clothes on the armrest. He puts it on but doesn’t button it.

Colin recognises the garb instantly: Jason wore it around him a few times. It looks a bit different on Roy, but fits him just as well. The boy wonders who owned the cardigan first; it looks soft and warm. He wonders if it’s soft because Jason wears it, wonders if it’s warm because Roy wears it too. He’d like to try it on. He’s afraid to leave stains.

“How about I lend you a warmer sweater first?” Roy muses out loud, eyeing Colin from head to toe. “If you don’t want any of mine, it’s fine; Jason left a few here, lemme get it for you…”

He drops the tea towel next to the sink, walks past Colin, and disappears in another room. He doesn’t ask the teen not to run away. Is it trust? Negligence? Colin isn’t as good a kid as Jason always says he is. The front door isn’t locked. Roy is a fool.

There’s a voice in Colin’s head telling him to make a run for it right now, because the more the clock ticks, the more he is afraid to tell Jason the truth. He isn’t even certain that he remembers which part of the truth is _the_ _truth_ and which part is nothing but this needy _needy_ him, the one that stays quiet until it can mooch on something good and destroy it whole, destroy the fruits and the leaves and the bloodstream and the roots.

(Granted, it’s only speculation, because Colin has never abused or destroyed anyone but himself or anything but his pride before.)

“Here,” Roy calls from the hallway. He walks back to the kitchen and stops close to his guest, holding a grey sweater and a red hoodie in front of him. His grin is almost tender. “Got two so you can choose. They’re not the warmest, but it’ll do. Jason won’t mind.” When Colin doesn’t answer nor move, Roy raises an eyebrow, adds: “He _would_ mind coming to you freezing in here, though.”

The teen can’t argue with that. Jason always gets stressed when Colin doesn’t do simple things to help himself, such as accepting a sweater when he is cold or getting food when he is hungry. Colin always does shit like this, and although no yelling ever happened so far, now would be the worst time to push Jason’s limits any further. If the man has a breaking point, Colin doesn’t want to find it.

He gets closer to Roy, accepts the clothes, and tries to decide which one to put on.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Don’t mention it—or thank _Jason_ later. Bring these back here if you can?”

Colin doesn’t need anybody else’s emotional baggage tonight, so he just nods and forces himself not to get too curious about the relationship Roy and Jason share or maybe _used_ to share. He doesn’t even know whether Jason likes men or not. He never asked; it’s not his business.

“Now…,” Roy starts after Colin has put the grey sweater on. “There’s no way Jason will let you go home without a _talk_. Trust me, you’ll need _help_. Coffee helps.”

Colin shudders. He’s not ready to talk about _anything_ , or perhaps he used to be ready, has been ready for _weeks_ , but pushed it away again and again and _again_ , until his willingness died. It’s dumb, he knows. He needs Jason. He needs his help. The man cannot help him if he doesn’t know what is wrong.

Roy takes two mugs from a cupboard above the sink, turns off the coffee maker, and pours coffee into the mugs. When he turns around, his eyes meet Colin’s, and his expression softens.

“He’s not mad at you, kiddo,” he swears. “He’s _scared_ , yeah, and maybe angry so he might sound harsh for a bit, but come on—it’s _Jason_. Dude forgave you the very moment your nun told him you ran away.”

“Why?”

Roy smiles at him but doesn’t say anything. Colin holds the red hoodie like a shield against his chest. It smells faintly of these cherry flavoured cigarettes Jason told him he was trying to give up on. He lets the scent float in the air for a minute, enough to comfort him, before he discards the hoodie on the armrest where the unfolded clothes are.

Roy puts one of the mugs on the right side of the counter and gestures at the teen to drink it up. His own mug in hand, he goes to sit two stools away from the teen, on the opposite side of the counter, giving them both a certain space.

Colin doesn’t feel like drinking anything. Jason should be here soon, in ten minutes or so. The boy’s stomach clenches at the thought. He is not ready to lose Jason, not ready to see a bad side to him, not ready to fight anymore.

He asks Roy if he can have milk. He hopes the Wayne family butler will be here to play mediator and calming soul. He barely avoids a spill when he pours too much of the milk in the coffee. He doesn’t feel right nor alive.

 

Eleven silent minutes later, Jason pushes the door to the flat open, closes it too softly behind him.

Colin tenses up immediately. He remembers fearing Jason before, but it was a different kind of fear, the kind he reserves to strangers and dangerous men and his own demons within. That fear tonight is nothing like it; it hurts more. It digs deeper, like talons slowly peeling away the skin protecting his heart, this same skin regularly strengthened by the love and attention offered to him by too little a number of people already. 

Colin cannot afford to lose any of them; he loves them so dearly. He prays they still love him too. He is too afraid to look at Jason right now, shivers when he hears the man say:.

“Roy—ten minutes?”

Roy gets up and puts his empty mug in the sink before he goes closer to Jason and whispers some words to him, ‘ _there’s still coffee if you want some_ ’ and ‘ _I need to sleep_ ’ and ‘ _be kind_ ’. Jason doesn’t reply. Roy goes and disappears into the hallway again, giving Colin’s shoulder a squeeze on the way. His steps quickly die and a door opens and closes. After this, for a while, the silence is back.

Jason takes deep inspirations. He walks behind Colin and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee. He then comes to sit not on the opposite side of the counter, as the boy hoped, but right next to him, body turned in his direction.

Colin cannot keep on ignoring his presence. He pushes his head up and crosses his arms, letting his eyes meet Jason’s—and oh, the man is _hurt_. There is no mistake here.

The teen has no idea what to say. He just wants to go home, but maybe ‘ _home_ ’ means ‘ _Jason’s home_ ’ in his mind and desires, something he knows he cannot have. His greed is shameful. Jason puts his left elbow on the counter and lets his head rest on his palm. He stares at Colin for a moment, anger and compassion fighting on a field of dilemma and care. When he speaks, his voice is low, forcing focus and keeping Colin immobile.

“Nine weeks ago now, I went home to see Bruce and begged him to adopt me. I still can’t believe he said ‘ _yes_ ’.”

Colin’s head is spinning. There it is. There it was. Jason’s exhaustion, his lack of insistence, his sullen glances, his burn-out. The Waynes will adopt him—does Damian know? Damian should know. It would make him happy. Colin wants him to be happy.

“I’m sorry I’ve been mostly absent since,” Jason continues. “It took a huge toll on me, emotionally, and lawyers and paperwork have been a real pain to deal with—not to mention college work and the shifts at the library… I’ve either barely slept or overslept days away. I’m _exhausted_. My brothers don’t even know about the adoption plans yet, although the court date is getting closer. I was hoping to gather enough courage or booze to tell them about it tomorrow morning, but now…”

 _Now you’re here dealing with_ my _mess. You’re away from your family. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

“I’m sorry.”

Jason shakes his head and sighs. He sits back with his arms crossed, moves his neck until it cracks. He doesn’t look at Colin anymore.

“Alfred and I were discussing how to break the news to them when Sister Agnes called. I ran out of the house as soon as she told me you ran away, but he followed me outside and then waited in front the car until I hung up, at which point he insisted I don’t drive. Not sure I would have been able to, considering… so _he_ drove me here. He’s a saint. He called Sister Agnes back for me after I called you because I had no idea what to tell her. He asked me to stay calm and be understanding with you.” A pause. Jason’s knuckles crack. His voice is dying. “But I want so badly to scream. To scream at _you_. I’m so angry.” He stares at Colin again, frowning and accusatory. “Why did you leave?” he asks; and when no answer comes, he repeats louder: “ _Why_?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”

Colin spoke without thinking about the words much. At least, this is the truth. _Part_ of the truth. He doesn’t want Jason to think that there is something too wrong with him, too irrational, too lost.

The man doesn’t back down. “Does it have _anything_ to do with Damian?”

Colin sincerely regrets that he almost never told Jason about every little thing that has happened with Damian. He is ashamed that the main reason he hid the tremendous steps forward made in their relationship so far is because he would not risk Jason reacting badly—however ridiculous that very idea was, as Colin rationally knew that a lot of the negative thinking surrounding telling the truth about him and Damian came from his internal monologue only.

“We’re close,” Colin confesses. “Not _that_ close, but we’re…”

What are they? Friendship doesn’t look like this. Or maybe it does? Colin has no idea. He hasn’t had friends in years. He never had a boyfriend.

He is confused and anxiety-ridden.

“We’re closer.”

Jason measures this statemens in silence, acquiescing shortly after. He doesn’t say anything but that doesn’t mean he approves of any of it. The endless pit of stress in Colin’s core is too well-fed to be stopped now. It makes the boy weak. Stuttering, he tries to explain:

“But it’s just a part of… it’s not what got me here. Damian and me. It’s an added context, not a cause. I was scared, so I ran away. Damian doesn’t scare me, this isn't why…”

He doesn’t know when he started to sway. It’s barely perceptible, although Jason seems to notice. Colin steadies himself. He is torturing his fingers in twisted motions, trying to find his words. He doesn’t know how to tell the story. He _doesn’t want Jason to think that he is crazy_.

Jason sighs. “Tell me why. You must tell me why. I can’t fix cracks I don’t see.”

Colin can’t help crying again, in silence on the outside but restless on the inside. He has no energy for this, and _yet_. He doesn’t know why Jason still puts up with him and wants to fix the cracks until they’re no more. He takes a few long breaths to calm down and talk, except when he finally does talk everything goes wrong, and it is nothing but rushed truths tangled in a mess.

“After I left the library today, I thought I saw… him… the man who pushed me. I thought he was there on the stairs with me again, that he wanted to hurt me, that he wanted _me_ … I ran all the way back to St Aden’s, but I was scared and convinced that he was following me, so I walked around the block many, _many_ times, before I gave in and returned home. There were more fights with the nuns again, and I… it stressed me out, you weren’t here, there was so much going on with Damian in the background, things I don’t know how to navigate but wanted to tell you about, except I never told you, I could never tell the nuns, and everything put together became too much, so I…”

So, he left. That’s the whole story, really: he was struggling with his feelings for Damian, thought he saw the drunk blond man again, thought he was going to hurt and be hurt again, thought and thought and thought while nothing pointed to any of this being true; and this—this right here hurts. This is the problem. What if he cannot tell what’s real? The idea makes him feel helpless, untrustworthy and broken.

It makes him feel like _before_.

Jason takes a few sips of his coffee. Colin counts to sixty in his head. He doesn’t have much strength left, physically or emotionally. He feels better because Jason is here, but also feels guiltier _because Jason is here_. Barren of all will, he mutters a soft ‘ _sorry_ ’. Jason answers by patting his arm, the gentle motion made to appease. But the man’s tone is still dry—and perhaps a bit _afraid_ —when he asks:

“Do you think that pig was really there? Or that he followed you home?”

Colin thinks about it for a while, mouths ‘ _I don’t know_ ’ several times as he reflects on the situation, finally settles on ‘ _no_ ’.  He doesn’t know if that’s the right answer. Jason, in front of him, looks concerned anyway.

“Why didn’t you _call_ _me_?” he asks. “I would’ve talked to you. Come to you if needed.”

“I _couldn’t_ call you. I tried, but…” _But I was so scared. Why can’t you see that I’m scared? I’m scared. I’m_ scared. “I tried.”

Jason frowns. “If you wanted help—”

“I wanted to _be safe_.”

His voice is nothing but anger now; not that he can control this. He _is_ angry. At himself, at the fear, at everything that happened and everything that did not. He doesn’t know where the anger stops.

He thinks: ‘ _so_ this _is how Damian feels?_ ’ and he wonders how Damian is still alive to this day.

He is afraid his short outburst could send Jason over the edge, too. When he looks at the man again, he expects rage and annoyance. He only finds sadness, and it hits him even harder. Jason seems lost in old thoughts, like he’s reviving something, like he knows what Colin means in a way Colin himself does not. He looks younger. His eyes look older. It’s desperate and haunting.

“St Aden’s is safe,” he whispers; and then, softer: “I guess you don’t feel that way.”

Colin can’t do this anymore.

“I don’t know how I feel,” he asserts. “I’m just sorry, Jay. I’m _really_ sorry. I messed up—I know I messed up. I was very stressed and scared and it effected my decisions poorly. I just want to fix this, but I don’t… can’t… I need…” He _can’t_. He _doesn’t_. He _needs_. He gets it now. “I don’t know how.”

Jason’s reaction is difficult to read. He nods several times, to himself more than as an acknowledgement. His gaze is unfocused. Twice, he seems to jolt more awake, more aware, inspecting the sweater the boy wears—his sweater. Once, he raises his right hand to poke at a hole on the left upper sleeve, a defect Colin had not noticed so far. For one more minute, Jason mulls over Colin’s words, before he reports his attention back to the teen’s face at last, and frowns. Colin can only guess how pale and frightened he must look. He feels drained, useless, and once again about to cry.

But Jason doesn’t give up. It’s like he never does, as if his limits were elastic, as expandable as his heart.

He brings his hand back closer to his chest, pushes the coffee mug away from him, and leans in while silently demanding Colin’s undivided attention. There is resolve in his eyes.

“Then we’ll work on that.”

Colin feels heavy, grounded, rooted in Jason’s love. He nods and fails to say ‘ _thank you_ ’, knows that it doesn’t matter because this is meagre compared to what he really wants to tell, to show Jason in the future, in general, in ways that will say ‘ _I love you_ ’ and ‘ _you’re family_ ’ clearly enough for the whole world to hear. He doesn’t know how yet. It doesn’t matter now.

Jason straightened up, stretches a little, then rubs his eyes. He seems in dire need of rest. He checks the time on his phone and says as he puts the device back in his pocket:

“Let’s get you home. It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

Colin follows him outside. They don’t say goodbye to Roy, who might be asleep already and has done way more than he had to do tonight. Colin is grateful for his help and hopes he will be able to thank him again in the future.

A black car is waiting for them, double-parked across the street. Jason opens the door to the backseat and enjoins Colin to get in. Alfred, behind the wheel, turns around to greet him as soon as the door closes.

“Good evening, Master Colin.”

He is smiling kindly, his face the image of benevolence. Colin echoes the ‘ _good evening_ ’, suddenly feeling very exposed. Jason climbs on the passenger seat. When they’ve both put their seatbelts on, the butler starts the car.

Colin intently looks out the window the entire travel, trying to be respectful and not to eavesdrop on the conversation the two other men are having. He still hears more or less everything. ‘ _Your father called. I suggest you call back._ ’ Jason mumbling something, his phone now casting a light around him. ‘ _Hey, yeah, we’ve got him… to St Aden’s… I dunno… can’t talk about this now… yeah… I’m tired, dad, tomorrow… I know, I’ll come over and sign it… no, don’t tell them, please don’t… I know…_ ’

Colin’s mind shuts off from the guilt.

They arrive in front of the convent in about twenty minutes. The lights at the front are still on, no police car in sight, no trace of Colin’s social worker’s motorbike either. Sister Agnes is waiting alone on the first floor, in her office, her silhouette moving behind the window. She leaves the room as soon as the butler parks the car in front of the yard.

Jason opens his door. “Thanks, Al. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time. I trust we will meet again, Master Colin?”

The boy doesn’t know. He nods to be polite, is paralysed by the fear of whatever punishment awaits him. He still has two escape plans in mind when Jason opens the door for him to step out of the vehicle.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he sighs. “Like a Band-Aid. One bad moment, and it’ll be over.”

Colin is not convinced but gets out anyway. Jason offers his hand to hold, like a blessing and a prayer. Colin takes it and squeezes it tight.

They arrive at the door just as Sister Agnes is pushing it open. She lets them inside the building and waits until the exit is locked before she calls for Colin to come closer. He complies. She hugs him. She is trembling and murmuring sweet nothings, enough for the boy to let some tears flow again. He worried her. He worried Jason. He compromised St Aden’s reputation and security, compromised the kids’ safety in this soft bubble within the system, almost destroyed every effort Jason and Sister Agnes have undertaken for him to later get a better, easier life once out of foster care. He is his own worst enemy.

He is his loved ones’ worst enemy.

The nun breaks the hug but doesn’t take her hands away from Colin’s arms.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she whispers, barely loud enough for Jason to hear—if she is even speaking to him. A quick nod in his direction, like an afterthought, indicates that she is.

“No problem,” he replies. “Ran away more than once in my time.”

Colin wonders if this is true. It probably is. It would explain why he gets away with it without a yelling or a beating, without Jason blowing up the bridges between them but instead offering _even more_ help, always more.

But Sister Agnes’ face tells the boy that trouble is still coming. She only looks guilty when she has to discipline, something she must do right now. Colin braces himself for what is coming for him. Oddly enough, he is not afraid anymore. He is numb. He is tired.

“We will be calling your social worker tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

Colin’s heart races. He is tired. Her voice is tired.

“I’m sorry, Colin. I tried—God knows I tried… But you can’t…”

She pauses. He knows what is coming. He is tired and numb.

“We can’t keep you. You can’t stay here.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for your comments always! ღ


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